


Privideniya

by Greekhoop



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Aging, Chaptered, Complete, Flashback, Ghosts, Long, Lost Love, M/M, roadtrip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-04
Updated: 2011-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:17:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 111,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greekhoop/pseuds/Greekhoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-MGS4 fic. Ocelot's final mission forces him to confront the restless ghosts of the past. Meanwhile, Raiden and Vamp take a roadtrip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was begun back in 2005, and I’ve just picked it up again recently. It splinters off from canon after MGS3, and I’m afraid there just ain’t no reconciling it.

Dawn broke over the mountains. The air was thin and cold, so clear it seemed to put up no resistance, no friction at all. Ocelot held his breath to keep white clouds of condensation from fogging the lenses of his scope. He had found this small shelf of stone the day before. It jutted out over the downward slope of the mountainside, leaving him with an unobstructed view of the plateau about a hundred meters below.

Up against the cliffside, the fortress of Groznyj Grad rose out of the breaking sunlight like a ghostly warship. Ocelot didn't believe in much - certainly not portents or omens - but he couldn't ignore the shiver that gripped him at the sight of those old stone walls and new steel doors. Decades had passed since he had remembered how to be worried, how to be afraid even in the face of insurmountable odds. But on this particular morning he was acutely aware that he had spent so long trying to flee this place, only to find his way back here to die.

Fifty years ago, a nuclear explosion had stripped the fortress to its steel dragon-bone skeleton, but even that hadn't been enough to level it. Groznyj Grad had been designed so that 500 soldiers could hold off an army of 50,000. Only one man had ever gotten past its defenses, and that man was dead. In this part of the world, someone with a secret wouldn't find a better place than this to keep it than here.

Though he didn't consider himself to have any particular affection for this country, Ocelot felt a little satisfaction at the knowledge that Groznyj Grad was being rebuilt in Russia proper: the Ural mountains, far south of Chelyabinsk. Though the fortress' original site had been ringed by almost perfect natural defenses, building there hadn't been an option this time around. Russian contractors in a part of Afghanistan long since reclaimed by nomads would have attracted too much attention.

In its unfinished state, Groznyj Grad seemed naked and vulnerable. Everything above the first floor of the west wing was still just a steel frame. The northeast courtyard was stacked with crates – computer equipment, no doubt – to be unloaded. Most of the personnel would not be awake yet. The security would be lax. One well-placed explosion could set construction back months. Ocelot could orchestrate something like that, set it all up over a slow lunch hour. But that wasn't what he was here to accomplish.

He looked beyond the complex then, over the black tarmac and past the outer ring of electric fences. He couldn’t say exactly what he was searching for, but he was confident he'd know it when he saw it. There would be a large maintenance bay; it was likely it would be underground, where the surveillance satellites couldn't spot it. The earth would be displaced somehow, as though over a fresh grave.

Ocelot became aware of a dull ache building in his left hand, a constriction most noticeable where the delicate bones of his fingers jointed. His jaw tightened, and he shifted his grip on the scope, methodically straightening each of his fingers in turn, flexing them. It was always worst in the morning, and he knew that if he could do this now, he would last the rest of the day.

It had been three months since the drugs had worked as well as they should have.

He had a little time left, enough time. The specialists had told him it would be a year, two on the outside, before he would lose the use of his hands, before they would begin to throb and stiffen and stumble over delicate work. Like reloading, like shooting…

Ocelot hadn't listened much after that.

There were strong painkillers he could have taken, but they would have only fogged his judgment and slowed his reflexes. There was an operation to replace the joints – fine microsurgery that could have made them like they'd been when he was young – but Ocelot had no intention of ever going under the knife again.

He had a year, and that was more certainty than he was used to.

He waited while his hands throbbed, tightened, then relaxed again. The worst of the pain subsided. Ocelot's eyes narrowed a little; he was smiling.

A gale of cold wind tore down the mountainside, tugging at his clothes and making a sound akin to a ricocheting bullet. Ocelot had tucked his long hair into his collar out of the way, but at the first gust it slipped free to batter the sides of his face and stick in the corners of his mouth.

And he, who had spent ten years in the taiga and never shivered, felt the cold now, felt it into his very bones.

Ocelot swept his scope once more over the ground below, ut even his trained eye found only Groznyj Grad’s familiar lines: efficient Soviet architecture, smooth new blacktop, and the clutter of construction. Not for the first time, he feared that what he had been looking for wasn't really there at all.

He let the scope fall to his side. Ocelot wasn't used to going away with nothing to show for his troubles, and even as he turned to leave he would not admit a retreat. He only needed a new way of looking at the situation. His knees ached as he started down the steep incline, but he ignored the gnawing ache.

The sun threw his shadow across the rocks. Long and lean and dark, gilded by the dawn; and yet there was something within it, a core of something darker. Something that watched him with cold blue eyes. Ocelot turned to look, and already it was gone.

He laughed, shook his head slowly. "It's no use," he said quietly, though he was not speaking to himself. The wind picked up again, whipping red dust around him, turning the sunrise to blood. "There's no hope for me this time."


	2. Chapter 2

_"That was when the ones who smiled  
Were the dead, glad to be at rest."  
-Akhmatova, Requiem_

At the outer gate of the fortress, Ocelot looked back at the sheer cliff face he had just descended. During the day, the little ledge of stone and the path that led up to it blended into the mountainside. It was only in the early morning that the sun threw the shadows just right so it could be seen.

Ocelot started across the courtyard, back toward Groznyj Grad, drawing a cigarette from inside his coat.

***

The sky was still the cold no-color of dawn when Ocelot crossed the courtyard to smoke. He always went as far as he could, out to where the electric fence crackled in the damp morning air. Cold stung his ears. Ocelot ran a gloved hand back through his cropped blond hair and wondered, not for the first time, if growing it out would keep him a little warmer.

He could have slept a little longer, but Ocelot was training himself to rise early. An extra hour to himself, before anyone else was awake, might come in handy some day. These days, he rose promptly at five. He forced back the blankets; struggled, still half-blind with sleep, into his Spetznaz uniform; and fumbled his lighter into his breast pocket. He walked out past the rows of jeeps, spinning his gun lazily around one finger. By the time he had made it to the edge of compound and back, the urge to crawl under the covers again had lost its temptation.

It was hard work; it was trying. That was why he did it.

Ocelot breathed a sigh, and a white cloud that was as much smoke as it was his own frozen breath curled up into the broken sky.

Long, white clouds sprawled above him, bloodied by the rising sun. He followed them with his eyes, to the point where they tapered out into the horizon. Like white gloved hands, beckoning him continually westward…   
One day, he knew, he wouldn't be able to resist them any longer.

"What are you staring at?"

Ocelot started; one hand snapped to the gun at his hip. Even before he’d finished turning around, he vowed he'd never forgive anyone who was able to sneak up on him like that.

"Did I scare you?"

The young man was leaning back against the hood of an artillery vehicle. His arms were folded, legs crossed primly at the ankle. He was dressed like an officer. When he stepped forward, rolling silently, like a predator, onto the balls of his feet, the sun flashed off his tall black boots and the three little stars pinned to his shoulder boards.

Ocelot scowled, snatching his cigarette from the corner of his mouth. He dropped it to the ground, grinding it out beneath the heel of his boot. "What are you doing there?"

"Me?" The young major tipped his hat off his head, shaking out his blond hair. The corner of his lips twitched into a smile. "Adamska Ivanovitch, don't you know who I am?"

"Raikov…" Ocelot muttered. He'd seen the Major around, but they had never spoken. He caught Raikov watching him sometimes, so brazenly that Ocelot could feel the heat of his stare on the back of his neck. But if he ever turned, if their eyes ever met, Raikov's lips would quirk into a weird smile. He would toss his hair, turn and vanish.

But this time, Raikov came forward, lifting a pale hand as though to drag the backs of his fingers over Ocelot's cheek. Ocelot recoiled a step, and one hand snapped up around Raikov's wrist, stilling him. "What do you want?"

Raikov raised an eyebrow, and laughed. A soft, indulgent laugh that immediately made Ocelot wish they weren't touching.

"Your collar," Raikov said. A slight tug freed his wrist. "I want to fix your collar." Ocelot fought the urge to turn away as Raikov gently folded down the side of his collar and straightened the red scarf around his neck.

"There," he murmured. "Now we can talk."

Ocelot opened his mouth to reply, and realized that he'd been holding his breath, as though afraid of inhaling any air that might have already touched Raikov's lips. "Who are you?"

Raikov smiled. "Why don't you just call me… Eva? Adam and Eva, the perfect match." He smoothed Ocelot's collar again, then his hand drifted slowly down Ocelot's chest. "I'll be your backup."

Ocelot shook his head. "What are you talking about? Who are you working for?"

"Guess."

Ocelot narrowed his eyes. "Are you KGB?"

"Good guess." His hand stopped when it reached Ocelot's belt, and Raikov turned his wrist, pressing his palm flat against Ocelot's stomach.

"Impossible. The KGB knows I work alone."

"Not this time." Raikov flicked his wrist, hooking two fingertips in Ocelot's belt. He jerked him forward a step, and for a moment they touched. "Don't worry, Adam. I'm good for lots of things. And I'm completely at your disposal."

Ocelot gasped, gulping cold air that seared his lungs. He brought an arm up between their bodies to shove   
Raikov away. "I don't care what your orders are. I want you to stay out of my way."

Raikov stumbled back. The heel of his boot struck the tire of one of the artillery vehicles, and he tumbled, off balance, back against the hood where he braced himself with his hands.

"That's a hell of a way to greet a comrade,” he said, seeming to smooth his ruffled hair and his ruffled dignity with one sweep of his gloved hand. “I was just trying to be friendly."

"I don't care,” Ocelot said. "I don't need any help from the KGB."

He started back toward the fortress, stepping wide around Raikov, watching him warily as he passed.

Raikov gave the front of his uniform coat a tug to straighten it. "You're playing a dangerous game. You just come see me if you need someone to take some of the pressure off, okay?"

He made no move to follow. When Ocelot turned back, Raikov had vanished, seeming to leave not even a quiver in the air to show that he had once displaced it. Ocelot drew his gun, spinning it thoughtfully as he made his way back.

***

As he walked back to the compound, Ocelot drew the gun from the holster at his right hip. He spun it once, slowly, then stopped.

His joints ached, and the gun felt clumsy in his hand.

Ocelot paused, lifted the pistol to look it over. It hadn't changed. Nothing had changed, except for him. And he sighed, holstering the gun again as he drew near to Groznyj Grad.

He passed a pair of sentries stationed in the yard who wore the familiar colors of the Gurlukovich army.   
They saluted him wearily; one stifled a yawn. They had worked through the night and were nearing the end of their shift, but Ocelot knew that wasn't the only reason neither of them spoke to him as he passed. He caught the glance they exchanged; he didn't know how they had thought he would miss it. There was nothing more familiar to him than distrust, after all.

He had used up the good faith he had once had with these men – this last tattered banner of Sergei's army - and now all Ocelot shared with them was a wary tolerance. He knew they wouldn't dare move against him while he was still of some use to them, and he didn't need them for much longer.

A gust of icy wind tore across the courtyard, ruffling Ocelot's collar. He tugged at the leather cord holding his hair back. It had become hopelessly tangled by the wind. Ocelot gave it a sharp pull, and it came loose all at once, taking strands of hair with it. The sting was fresh and incisive; it faded quickly after the initial flash. It was a young man's pain, but Ocelot only had a moment to enjoy that.

The wind coaxed his hair over his shoulder and into his eyes. Gray as dirty snow, stiff and wiry… Ocelot caught it at the nape of his neck, tying it up again neatly.

The last bloodstains of sunrise had been washed from the sky, and Ocelot began to piece his mask into place. Outside the east wing of the base, he paused briefly before continuing. He had lived this long by being able to think on his feet, but he also knew the value of pausing a moment to catch his breath.

He went in, out of the cold.


	3. Chapter 3

As a boy, Ocelot spent a decade stationed in Siberia: the snowy forests west of the Lena River delta. He had gone with the GRU unit that had raised him from childhood, sent there to supervise the building of a nuclear research facility, in a place so far to the north that no one would dare to look there for it.

The young men called it Kolyma, after the prison camps that had once stood in the area, black flecks on the undistinguished white landscape. In those camps, a thousand enemies of the Party had mined coal and gold until they dropped from pneumonia or consumption. The old Kolyma camps had been razed to the ground and the prisoners pardoned under orders from the new Premier, but there were still bales of razor wire, black with rust, hidden in the deep drifts of snow. Ocelot learned quickly to watch where he stepped, as a scratch from one of those barbs meant a regimen of tetanus injections from the camp surgeon, a trained veterinarian named Bukolov.

In the winter, there were shortages of everything. Ocelot remembered the black bread in their rations, how it had to be soaked in the snow before it was soft enough to eat. There was no sun for six months at a stretch, only the ominous blue glow of the Aurora Borealis. Sometimes it was so cold that skin would freeze on contact with the air.

They had given him an old fur-lined Red Army coat which was so big on him he had to roll the sleeves, and the bottom hem hung down to the soles of his scuffed and muddy boots. It was the smallest coat they could find, and even then he still had some growing to do.

Back then, Ocelot had been fond of saying to himself, "If I live through this winter, then I can live through anything."

***

Inside, out of the wind, it was easy to forget about the cold, though the chill was slower to melt out of his joints than once it had been.

Ocelot moved on through the featureless corridors of the fortress, not so quickly as to attract unnecessary attention, but with enough drive in his steps that he did not appear to wander aimlessly. It wouldn't do for anyone to suspect that he had been up so long before reveille. That would only cast suspicion on him. Ocelot was certain there was no distrust he wouldn't be able to deflect, but it annoyed him when people thought they were more clever than he was.

As he followed the gleaming white hallway to the main wing; his mind rambled ahead, around familiar corners and into rooms that he could only remember when he wasn’t trying to.

A few weeks ago, when he had first arrived, curiosity had compelled him to look for his old quarters. To find the wall against which his wooden bunk with its hard mattress had been nailed. To see what was now in the corner where there had once been a little table and a chess set with chipped pieces and one black knight that was missing its head.

Ocelot had played chess obsessively until he was fourteen, but then stopped abruptly, tired of winning every time without a challenge. He had expected his mind to still be as sharp as it had been all those years ago, that he could still anticipate half a dozen moves in advance, but when he had gone back through the grid of corridors to the intersection where he knew that familiar room used to be, he had realized he wasn't sure anymore whether it lay beyond the door to the east or the door to the west.

He had lost more than his sense of direction along the way, but it did not hinder him. Ocelot had long ago stopped living for the past, and for the future. The present was the only thing he needed to survive.

The tapping of boots echoed down the hallway from just around the next corner. Ocelot recognized the tread, sharp as rifle reports, but he made no indication except for a slight tightening around his eyes. He knew those crisp footfalls well enough to know that this was a meeting he couldn't hope to avoid.

As he rounded the next corner, Ocelot kept his eyes lowered slightly, as if lost in thought. He was nearly upon the young officer with the staccato footsteps when he threw his shoulders back sharply and gasped in feigned surprise. He looked startled, because he knew it made him seem practically harmless. "Lieutenant. Good morning."

The lieutenant stopped in his tracks. He had none of a saboteur’s skill at hiding his emotions – a most pitiable condition indeed, Ocelot thought – and as he raised his hand for a salute his eyes showed only loathing.

His name was Alexei Vulich. He was twenty-four and a veteran soldier, one of three or four dozen men who were all that remained of the former Gurlukovich Army.

The first thing that everyone noticed about Vulich was that he wore his uniform very well. Even his shabby, standard-issue coat that had been patched many times, that was faded from being worn through long desert campaigns, seemed to have been tailored to fit his broad shoulders and straight back. The cuffs of his shirt were never too short; his boots were always polished. He would have been mortified ever to find a button missing from his uniform. Because of this, people assumed that Vulich didn't have many talents beyond his immaculate dress. It had taken Ocelot until the weeks following Olga Gurlukovich's death to realize that was a mistake; an error so grievous that Ocelot was still trying to correct it.

Vulich dropped his salute. He looked Ocelot over, like a young and inexperienced predator sizing up his prey. His eyes were so dark there seemed to be no delineation between pupil and iris. Though he was Kazakh by birth, he resembled his Russian grandfather in every way save for those black eyes.

"I didn't think you'd be awake so early, Shalashaska,” he said at last.

"I thought you might say something like that," Ocelot replied. "You're still awfully young."

He looked down at Ocelot's boots and one of his eyebrows twitched. "And you've been outside. What were you doing?"

It took Ocelot a split second to realize how Vulich knew he'd left the compound that morning. There had been dew on the grass outside and that the cuffs of his pants were still damp from it. It took him only another moment to decide that Vulich was going to be altogether more trouble than he was worth one day. And when that time came, Ocelot was going to enjoy putting a bullet through the middle of that handsome, wolfish face…

"Just having a cigarette," Ocelot said affably.

"You're not in America anymore, Shalashaska. You don't have to go outside to smoke."

"I think I prefer it all the same, Lieutenant."

Vulich didn't reply too that. Like any good officer, he knew when to fight and when to simply hold his ground.

"Another three soldiers have gone missing," he said.

"Deserters?"

Vulich pressed his lips thin and didn't answer that either. "That leaves thirty-eight men. Not counting me. Not counting you."

"Have you sent anyone to track them down?"

"I can't spare the manpower," Vulich said. "Everyone is working 12-hour shifts just to keep a perimeter around the facility. However, if I see those three again, I'll kill them myself. I don't have any patience for traitors."

"Of course you don't," Ocelot said easily. He already knew that Vulich suspected him of betraying Sergei Gurlukovich. The Lieutenant wasn't sure yet how to act on that suspicion, but it was there, gnawing at him.   
A constant knot in the pit of his stomach, a bad taste in his mouth that he couldn’t get rid of.

"It's good for morale to have an execution once in a while," Ocelot said.

Vulich snorted. "Ridiculous."

"Do you think so?"

"Did they teach you that in the KGB? I'm not a fucking Stalinist."

Ocelot found it harder than he should have to reply without laughing. "What are you then? Something more… progressive, perhaps? Maybe you're an entrepreneur. You snapped up control of Sergei's army like a regular venture capitalist."

"I'm a patriot," Vulich said sharply. "And I am a Russian."

"Easy, Lieutenant. I haven't heard a denial like that in sixty years."

"That’s because people have become complacent. They don't believe in anything anymore."

"We live in a post-modern world, I suppose," Ocelot said with a shrug. "What do you suggest we do, Lieutenant? Take away their televisions? Liberate our comrades from their possessions?"

"You're making fun of me." Vulich narrowed his eyes again. "At least when people were hungry, at least when they were afraid… that was something."

Ocelot had heard all this before; Vulich never got tired of speeches.

"Something indeed," he said. "I don't think you know what it was."

"It was something worth fighting for, which is more than we have now," Vulich said coldly. "All the right intentions are right. The ideas, the doctrine is sound. It's men that ruined it. Men who are fallible and weak."

"But it's something you could believe in?"

"Why not?" Vulich tilted his chin back arrogantly. "What else am I supposed to believe?"

"That is a good question." But one that Ocelot already knew the answer to, as pain sunk its teeth into the knuckles of his left hand. "There's nothing you can believe in, Lieutenant. There's nothing certain. There's nothing that means anything, and nothing that matters."

Anger swelled like a wave behind Vulich's eyes; his expression grew taut, stretched to the breaking point. It was even more satisfying than Ocelot had expected to see him upset.

"I suppose that you speak from experience," Vulich said.

"I suppose that I do," Ocelot said. "You're still young, Lieutenant. You'll understand one day. If you live that long, that is."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Ocelot shrugged. "Nothing much. I just couldn’t help but notice that Gurlukovich troops aren't known for their longevity. Maybe those three deserters are on to something that you haven't realized yet."

The color drained out of Vulich’s face, but he kept his composure. "What are you going to do to my men, Shalashaska?" he said quietly. "They've been through enough…"

"Whatever do you mean? I’m helping you out, Lieutenant. As a favor, to Sergei's boys."

Vulich looked translucent, brittle, like a roaring fire blazing inside a paper stove. He wavered a little on his feet but didn't seem about to move out of the way, so Ocelot stepped briskly around him.

"Pardon me, Lieutenant. Look at the time. I have to be in the lab soon. It was pleasant talking to you, though."

He walked away. He was almost to the end of the corridor before he heard Vulich's footfalls again, heading in the opposite direction. They weren't so sharp anymore; he dragged his feet a little, muddying the crisp sound.


	4. Chapter 4

Everyone kept telling him to get out of New York for a while. The first snow of the season had come early this year, blanketing the city overnight and all his favorite places had become suddenly monochrome, unfocused, and devoid of life.

Raiden was tired of being cold all the time.

Money wasn't the issue. He had savings, enough to catch a plane to Tampa, Los Angeles, or to somewhere further south, where the sun would burn hot enough to sear everything else away. But come this spring, it would be three years since he had killed the man he'd once thought of as his father, and Raiden was still in the same crappy apartment, in the same dirty city, under the same black sky. He had watched them rebuild the Capital Building and piece the demolished downtown blocks back together. Even on the waterfront, where the destruction had been the greatest, a few businesses had already reopened: some bars, a tattoo parlor, liquor stores, a Mafia pizza place, a 7-11, one of those smoke shops that sold things like belt buckles with bright green pot leaves on them.

Once, it had been a good neighborhood. Raiden could remember when there had been some fashionable restaurants that overlooked the water, and condos with fake Italianesque names going up quicker than you could say ‘gentrification’. It wasn't so good anymore. Not terrible, not by New York's standards, but bad enough that Raiden felt conspicuously out of place whenever he went to look at the buckled pavement, at the gutted buildings with boarded-up windows, old businesses that hadn't been bought out yet.

He had helped cause this. There were certain times of the year when he couldn't help but remember, when everything seemed to remind him of the monstrous nature of his sins. In a way, it was what he wanted. To forget everything that had happened would have been the same as dying, no different than if he had taken a bullet to the back of the head in the depths of the Big Shell. Enough people had died already, and Raiden wasn't sure which was worse: the ones he had killed, or the ones who had died to protect him.

The only thing that frightened him much these days was forgetting them. Losing sight of one of their faces in his mind, even for a moment, that was all he was all he feared.

Lately, even the night terrors came less and less frequently. In the days after he'd killed his father, Raiden slept more soundly than he had in years. At first, he had been grateful for that, a small mercy in the midst of a thousand cruelties, but now he couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't the first step on the road to amnesia… And he would lie in bed at night, waiting for the cold clench of dread that never came.   
Whenever a sound woke him in the middle of the night, it would be with his tongue already tasting his lips for screams that were never there.

What he needed, Raiden had decided, was a fight. But only to remember how much he hated fighting. He needed to risk his neck, but only so he wouldn't forget how much he liked his newfound soft civilian life. The only problem was that finding someone to fight was harder than he had expected. He had begun to frequent the bars down by the waterfront, hoping that he'd be able to find someone who would take his shiny hair, his smooth skin, and his thighs that could bend an iron bar as personal affronts.

But most nights, he was just ignored, a ghost who had wandered in off the street for a drink. A little lost, perhaps, but ultimately harmless. It seemed that he had underestimated the number of people in New York who wanted to take a swing at a pert blond prettyboy.

Occasionally, a woman approached him. He had invited one home with him once. Her name was Amber, and she had red hair. She'd dropped a cigarette on his couch and clawed his back to ribbons so that putting on a shirt the next day had stung. In the morning, she had muttered something about being late for work, and left without exchanging numbers.

For a while, Raiden had been satisfied.

But it had only been a week, and already he was back at the same waterfront bars, only he went further tonight than he ever had before.

The clouds were low, and a bitter wind whistled through the shells of gutted buildings. He could hear the lap of waves. It was too dark to see the water, but he knew he was close to it. The air smelled of salt, dead fish, pollution… Coming here, he thought, was just like coming home.

It was the kind of night where the cold would blow right through you, like you weren't even there at all. Raiden's hands were numb, but his instincts were not. That heightened sixth sense, honed by decades of combat, he knew as soon as he stepped through the door of the little dive bar – before he had even finished crossing the threshold – that something was wrong.

His eyes narrowed, sweeping quickly over the room. The hazy smoke, the pool tables, the neon Jagermeister sign, the jukebox spitting out _American Pie_ in a raspy voice… Nothing was out of place. Everything was as it should have been. Yet still, he couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck.

Raiden reached back slowly, slipping his hand beneath his jacket. There was a hunting knife hidden in the back of his jeans. He wanted a fistfight, so bringing it along tonight wasn't the smartest thing he had ever done. But these days he liked the security of a weapon; the weight of it seemed somehow friendly to him.  
The knife’s hilt was hot and slick in his hand, warmed by his body. His fingers curled around it; as they did, a dry laugh rattled in his ears.

"Where do you think you are? Texas? You can't pull a weapon in here."

Raiden started, but just barely. The voice came from behind him, just over his left shoulder. It was pitched low, but he heard it clearly over the buzzing jukebox. It was the kind of low rumbling voice that never had any trouble carrying in a crowded room, a voice that brought to mind hot blood and cool steel and cold eyes.  
Raiden tensed, his hand twitching on the hilt of his knife as he turned on his heels. His throat clenched, blowing his first attempt at words. It was a moment before he could attempt speech again, and even then he could manage only a short, controlled burst. "Vamp!"

In the dirty neon light, his skin was washed of color. His hair was the blue-black of a fresh bruise. One hip was thrust out, leaning casually against the barstool from which he had just risen. His arms were folded, as if he had been waiting a long time for Raiden to notice him there.

Raiden didn't want to think about how many times Vamp could have killed him by now, but, as the man stepped forward silently, his lips curling into a smile that showed no teeth, it was hard not to.

"Hello, my little ingenue," Vamp said smoothly. "Aren't you a long way from home?"

"What the hell do you want?" Raiden hissed. He was emboldened by the knowledge that even Vamp wasn't crazy enough to attack him in a room full of people.

At least, he probably wasn’t.

Vamp lifted one hand, displaying the bottle of beer hanging from its neck between two fingers. "Having a drink. Why don't you stay for a round? I'm buying."

"Bullshit. Who sent you?" Raiden's eyes narrowed. "La-li-lu-le-lo?"

Vamp laughed softly. "That's a crazy thing to say."

"Don't call me crazy…" Raiden hissed. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it behind his eyes. Inside his heavy coat, he was sweating. Black spots gnawed at his peripheral vision. He stumbled forward, fought down his vertigo and somehow managed to walk without pitching forward onto his face. He brushed past Vamp, past the crowd of blue collar guys at the door. Outside again, the cold wind was like a slap to the face, and it revived him some. Raiden gasped for breath.

The Army psychiatrist said he had a mild case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Raiden called it a gift from his late father, the only one he had ever given him.

He slipped around the corner of the bar, into a narrow alley that ran between it and the next building over. It was lit poorly – a distant streetlamp at both ends and a blue neon sigh in the window of the bar – but that was probably for the best. Something was rustling in the shadows, and Raiden wasn't sure he wanted to know what it was.

Another pair of footsteps crunched on one of the thin patches of dirty snow. Raiden spun around.  
The low light cast strange shadows over Vamp's face; Raiden couldn't make out his expression from where he was standing, but he didn't want to go any closer.

"What's wrong?" Vamp asked.

"Nothing." Raiden shook his head. "Nothing is fucking wrong. Why are you following me?"

Vamp shrugged. "Maybe I'm just glad to see a familiar face. Especially one as pretty as yours."

Raiden tensed. Ever since the Big Shell, he had felt that he was growing old too quickly, as though his life had jumped the shark the moment he sunk his sword in Solidus' warm guts. Only two years had passed, and there were already faint lines around his eyes, already he had begun to find gray hairs nesting among the blond. When it was cold, his left hip ached, the nagging reminder of a splinter of shrapnel he had taken when he was eight years old.

But there, under the cold blue neon light, Vamp didn't look any different at all. Even his hair was the same, still too long to be respectable, but working for him somehow. Only the dark smudge in the center of his forehead - the hole left by a stray bullet - was gone now, and not even a scar showed where it had once been.

Raiden had been proud of that wound, proud that he had been able to leave his mark on a man like Vamp. Without that reminder every time he looked at his reflection, it was a wonder Vamp remembered him at all.  
Raiden's fists clenched at his sides. "What happened to your head?" he asked.

"That?" Vamp touched the spot between his perfectly arched brows, exactly where the bullet had gone in. "Just a lovetap coming from you, ingenue." He smiled, tilting his head back to show that fist-shaped stretch of skin under his jaw. He was practically asking to have a few teeth knocked loose, begging for it.

So Raiden didn't disappoint him.

It didn't occur to him until later that dodging that first punch should have been easy for Vamp. It didn't occur to him that he should have seen Raiden’s fist coming from a mile away. It didn't, because all Raiden could think about was how good bone felt against his knuckles, how satisfying it was to see Vamp's head snap to the side, his mouth draw up into a confused pout.

Vamp touched two fingertips to the corner of his mouth. They came away with little powderburns of blood on them.

"Ow…" he muttered, and licked the blood from his fingers.

Raiden stepped back, lifting his hands and pushing up onto the balls of his feet. "I knew I was going to   
have to kick someone's ass tonight."

"Sounds like a self-fulfilling prophecy to me." Vamp looked him over; his lips twitched into a smile. "Stop that."

But Raiden could already feel the blood pounding at his temples, the hot flush of excitement in his cheeks. For a real fight, there was nothing better than a grudge match. Especially a grudge match against a delusional, unkillable psychopath.

If this didn’t make him feel better, than nothing ever would.

He threw his weight onto his left foot, pivoting to aim a stiff kick at Vamp's jaw. For a moment before his heel connected, his back was to the other man, and he was vulnerable. Vamp's hand snapped up, catching Raiden around the ankle. It only took a little push to put him off balance.

Raiden stumbled a step, giving Vamp the split second he needed to drive a fist into the small of his back. His knees unhinged. He hit the pavement, moving already. Digging his heels in and trying to put some distance between them.

Vamp didn't follow him. As Raiden got to his feet, he only tilted his head a little. "You won't like the way this ends."

"Shut up." Raiden spat the coppery taste of adrenaline from his mouth, raising his hands again.

They both moved at once, tangling together in a flurry of punches. Raiden excelled at five types of unarmed combat. Vamp, in at least that many. None of that mattered, though, because as soon as they came together they were just another drunken brawl in the alley behind a bar. All stray elbows, hissed and breathless curses. Teeth and nails and flying blood. Boots slipping on splinters of broken glass. Raiden couldn't tell who was winning, couldn't even tell if they were evenly matched, but it really didn't matter.

One of his punches landed somewhere soft. The next one, somewhere so hard that it probably hurt him more than it did Vamp. Something cracked him on the point of the jaw, making his teeth click together and sparks dance before his eyes.

And then, as though the perfect moment had been choreographed in advance, they shoved each other away.   
Raiden still shaking his head to clear away the static, Vamp wiping the droplets of blood from his eyelashes.

He stepped back, and smiled at Raiden. "What sharp claws you have..."

"Don’t act so surprised." Raiden didn't wait for a response. Vamp had lowered his guard, and so he darted forward. His first punch sent Vamp stumbling back against the brick wall behind him, a soft white bullseye against the dingy stone. By the time he had drawn his hand back for the second, Raiden could see nothing but that unmarred place between Vamp's eyes where something horrible should have been. He could think only of the satisfying crunch of a nose breaking under his knuckles. His hand came down.

And then, Vamp ducked.

It wasn't that Raiden notice what had happened only too late to avoid it, it was that he didn't notice it at all, not until he pulled his hand back and realized that the blood running down his arm was his own.

There was a little bit of skin left on his knuckles, a few frayed scraps still clinging to the bright red meat that had been uncovered underneath, but almost everything on all four fingers, from his second knuckle down to just past his third, had been flayed off.

Raiden's jaw dropped. "Oh my god. Look what I just did to my fucking hand."

Vamp had backed off to regroup, but now he dropped his hands and came closer again. He looked at Raiden's hand, then and the red smear on the wall. "Just how hard were you planning on hitting me?"

"Hard," Raiden said, distracted. He took off his scarf and wrapped it once around his knuckles. Blood soaked through in a matter of seconds, so he wrapped it around them again.

Vamp raised an eyebrow. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Let me see it."

Raiden pulled his hand close to his chest. "I said it's fine!"

"If it's fine, then let me see it."

"Go away. I'll take care of it." Raiden turned away, still cradling his injured hand.

"Maybe you should get it looked at."

"No, it'll be okay. I think the bleeding's stopped." As he said that, blood began to show through another layer of the scarf. Raiden bit his lip. "I'd better head home now."

"You look a little pale."

"Thank you so very fucking much for that breaking news bulletin!"

"My apartment is only a few blocks away. Come with me, and I can patch you up there."

"You're joking!"

Vamp sighed. "Do you really want to pass out on the way home?"

Raiden thought of the icy pavement, the black labyrinth of streets, the impossibility of ever finding a cab when you needed one. "No…"

"So come on. I'm not going to hurt you." Vamp smiled that strange a close-lipped smile. "I don't bite."

"I guess…" Vamp started to leave, and Raiden trailed after him, holding his injured hand against his body. "But you'd better not try to do anything. You owe me."

"Owe you for what?"

"Ducking."

***

Raiden didn't think it was unfair to say that the building Vamp lived in was a real shithole.

Half the lights in the stairwell were burned out, which made it almost impossible to see the stairs that were loose. Which made it almost impossible for Raiden to walk up them without falling and knocking himself out cold on the railing every few steps. The carpet was frayed and torn up in places. The cat-piss colored wallpaper was starting to peel away from the brick. Cockroaches crawled along the floorboards as boldly as if they'd held seats on the Homeowners Association.

"This is where you live?" Raiden asked. He didn't feel lightheaded, which meant he hadn’t lost as much blood as he had thought, but it felt like his hand had been run through an industrial meat slicer. Each beat of his heart made it throb.

"I've been laying low," Vamp said, leading him down a fourth-floor corridor to his apartment. "FBI's most wanted and all…"

"Yeah, but couldn't you lay low somewhere that doesn't look like the set from a serial killer flick?"

Vamp shrugged, slipping his keys out of his pocket and unlocking his door. "I am on the waiting list for a secret underground lair, but you know how New York is."

"Sure…" Raiden muttered, following him inside.

Vamp slid the chain across the door. "Come in the kitchen."

"Oh Jesus, are you going to eat me?"

"You'd taste bad. Nanomachines always do." Vamp pulled a chair around next to the kitchen counter. "Sit.   
I'll be right back."

Raiden sighed as he sat down, resting his hand on the counter. This was stupid. Trusting someone like Vamp was a dumb thing to do. Vamp, who probably wanted to fuck him. And kill him. And completely drain his body of blood.

Hopefully he’d at least get them in the right order.

He should have already been on his way out the door, but instead he was looking around the apartment and thinking that Vamp hadn't been exaggerating when he said he was laying low. The place was practically empty. Gutted, as though Vamp had brought nothing of himself along when he moved in.

It wasn't very fair, Raiden thought, for him to leave no clues as to what kind of a man he was.

Vamp returned with a clear bottle, about two-thirds empty. Glass clicked softly on the countertop as he set it down.

"What's that?" Raiden said.

Vamp turned it, displaying the label. "I thought I had iodine. I guess not. This is just as good."

"Vodka?" Raiden looked up at him. "Are you kidding?”

"Don't worry," Vamp said. "It's the cheap stuff. I saved the good bottle."

Raiden rolled his eyes. "At least tell me you have something I can use for bandages."

"Of course," Vamp said. "I thought I had gauze, but it looks like I'm out of that, too. I did find this, though." He set a roll of toilet paper down next to the vodka.

"Jesus…".

"Don't worry so much. It's better than field surgery." Vamp set one hand gently over Raiden's wrist, peeling the matted scarf away from his knuckles with the other.

"Ow! Be careful, Vamp!"

"Adrian," Vamp said without looking up.

"Huh?" Raiden winced as Vamp finished pulling the scarf away from his hand.

"My name's Adrian. You don't have to call me Vamp." He picked up the bottle of vodka, popping the cap off with his teeth.

"All right, then, Adrian. I told you not to pour that on me." He tried to pull his hand back, but Vamp tightened the grip on his wrist. He upended the bottle over his split knuckles.

Raiden made a choked sound, not quite a scream.

Though he didn’t think he believed Vamp when he said that it worked just as well as iodine, the vodka did at least wash away most of the blood, finally giving Raiden a look at the gashes on his knuckles. They were actually a little disappointing, as battle scars went. They were all shallow scrapes, nothing broken, no horrible glimpses of white bone. They would heal up in a few days, and then Raiden knew he would be right back where he had started.

Vamp lifted his hand, tucking the edge of the toilet paper between Raiden's thumb and forefinger and winding the roll around his knuckles. When the little cardboard tube was empty, he tucked the stray end into the bandages, and let go of Raiden's wrist. "There. Perfect."

Raiden lifted his hand: a soft white ball, reeking of vodka and blood. "Thanks."

"Does it hurt?"

"Yeah." Raiden nodded weakly. "A little."

"I used up all the cheap vodka, but I've got some of the expensive kind left…"

Raiden was quiet for a moment, though not really because he was thinking the offer over. "Yeah. Okay."

Vamp took the bottle down from the top of the fridge, and Raiden followed him toward the door in the back of the apartment. "It's more comfortable in the bedroom," Vamp said.

"Oh." Raiden wasn't sure if he should have believed that, especially since the bedroom seemed to him just as empty as the rest of the rooms. There was a bed, a computer up on cinder blocks, a stack of thick books. The walls were bare except for a small crucifix at the head of the bed.

Vamp sat on the bed, Raiden on the floor at his feet. They drank right from the bottle, passing it back and forth, wiping the mouth on their sleeves before each long swallow.

An awkward silence stretched out between them, one that Raiden wasn't sure how to break. At first, he stared down at the white balloon around his hand, but then he found his attention drawn to the crucifix over Vamp's bed. It was made of cheap plastic, and some of the brown paint they had used on Jesus' hair had smeared onto his gaunt cheeks.

"Why's it so empty in here?" Raiden asked at last. "It looks like a cell in a monastery or something."

Vamp shrugged. "I couldn't think of anything else I needed."

"Oh." Raiden took a sip of vodka. "I guess it kind of reminded me of my room, that's all. Maybe there's nothing else I need, either."

"That's the only safe way to live," Vamp said quietly.

"I know," Raiden said.

He was quiet for a long time after that. Vamp passed him the bottle; he took it, but didn't drink, only twisted it slowly in his hand.

"She died," he said at last. "Emma, I mean. I thought you should know."

"A lot of people died," Vamp said. "That's what people do. They die. I don't suppose, though, that you'd believe me if I told you that I never set out to be a murderer. I don't like to make a habit of it."

"No, I get it. I killed a lot of people too." He looked over, but he couldn't lift his eyes to meet   
Vamp's. "I'm sorry about Fortune. I know it wasn't her fault."

"Fortune…" Vamp shook his head. "You didn't kill her, I know that." He reached down, plucking the bottle out of Raiden's hands. "I just can't help but wonder if he could kill me, too."

"Ocelot, you mean? I wouldn't underestimate him if I were you."

"I wouldn't dare." Vamp's eyes narrowed. "But I will find him one day."

"What will you do then?"

"Then," Vamp said. He sipped the vodka. "Then, I'm going to tear out his liver and make him watch while I eat it."

"Yeah?" Raiden smiled humorlessly. "You have to promise to send me a postcard."

Vamp handed the bottle back. "What about you? What are you going to do someday?"

This time Raiden did drink. The bottle was almost empty. "I thought I was going to get married. Raise a kid. That kind of thing. But it turned out that wasn't what I wanted. It wasn't what either of us wanted."

"You had a lover?"

Raiden nodded. "Yeah. I mean, I did love her, for a while at least. But we talked it over, and we realized that we didn't want a baby. Each of us was only doing it for the other. It was a mess. Yelling, crying, broken dishes. But I'm glad it happened. It was going to sooner or later, and at least we got it out of the way before she had the kid."

"What happened to the baby?"

Raiden shrugged. "Put it up for adoption. We figured that there were about a zillion people out there less fucked up than us. That was about a year ago."

"And your lover?"

"I see her around, but not very much anymore." Raiden sighed. "That reminds me, I should probably call her."

"You're drunk."

"Yeah…" Raiden leaned his head back against the bed, closing his eyes and feeling the room revolve around him. "So, anyway, I guess what I really want is to make someone happy."

"That's vague."

"No, I don't mean just anyone," Raiden said. "A specific person. Olga." When he opened his eyes again, he was surprised to find Vamp looking down at him curiously, with a strange tenderness. "She died for me. Well, not really for me. For her kid. It was the same thing, though."

"I didn't know she had a child," Vamp said.

"They took it from her. You know… them." He could tell by the way Vamp's mouth twisted that he understood. "And they told her to help me out or they'd kill it. I don't even want to imagine what that kid's been through. I don't even want to imagine what they're doing to it."

Vamp nodded. "I understand. You think they're training it to be an agent, right? They are very efficient. They don't let component parts go to waste."

"That's right," Raiden said. "So I guess… I guess what I really want is to find that kid. Bring him somewhere safe. Make sure he doesn't grow up like I did."

That last part had slipped out accidentally, and Raiden was glad when Vamp didn't comment on it. He didn't say anything at all for a while, and Raiden leaned over, nudging his knee. "Adrian?"

"I was just thinking, if anyone knows where they're keeping the child, it would be Ocelot."

"I guess." Raiden frowned. "What are you trying to say? We should work together or something?"

"As long as we have Ocelot in common it couldn't hurt, could it? You're ex-Army, I'm ex-Navy…"

"Together, we'll fight crime?"

Vamp smiled thinly. "And they say there's no interdepartmental cooperation in the military."

Raiden laughed. In the back of his mind, a little voice was screaming that this was a stupid thing to do; it was trying desperately to remind him that he didn't trust Vamp, he didn't trust anyone, but that thought was nicely muffled by the alcohol, and easy to ignore. "I do still have some contacts. And Solid Snake told me that Ocelot always goes home for a while after he orchestrates something as big as what happened in the harbor."

"Russia, then?"

"That's right." Raiden counted off on his fingers. "So we'll need information. I'll see what I can dig up. We'll also need guns."

Vamp nodded. "Lots of guns."

"Lots of huge guns."

Vamp ran a hand back through his hair thoughtfully. "I don't suppose you've ever been to Russia, have you?"

"No," Raiden admitted. "But you have, right?"

"Not Russia proper. I haven't been home in a long time. But I may be able to call in a few favors in that part of the world, make sure we don't run into any trouble with customs."

Raiden thought he had a pretty good idea what sort of people Vamp would be calling, but he knew better than to ask. He was sure he didn't want to know the specifics.

"I guess it's settled, then," he said.

"Almost." Vamp's eyes thinned. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"What kind of bullshit question is that? Of course you don't know you can trust me. I don't know if I can trust you, either."

Vamp looked down at him, fixing Raiden with his steely blue eyes. "You can trust me," he said, and he sounded so serious about it, that for a moment Raiden was almost tempted to believe him. He really must have been hopeless, if even a crazy vampire – one who had been personally responsible for at least a dozen of his nastier scars - could lie to him so easily.

Maybe it just felt good being lied to this casually; accepting it, without question or doubt. It was a little nostalgic.

"Okay," Raiden murmured. The bottle of vodka was still in his hand, and he lifted it to his lips, drinking the last of it down without flinching. He had the feeling he was going to need it before this was over.

"Okay," he said again. "You can trust me, too."


	5. Chapter 5

He knew that he had a little time before Vulich began to pose a real problem to him, so Ocelot let him walk away. The man had sharp eyes and a quick mind. He was intuitive and accurate, and he didn't know anything but war. That was what made Vulich so potentially troublesome, but it was also what made him so potentially useful. Waste not, want not: that was what the Americans said. A bit of wire could be turned into a spoon, a shoelace could be turned into a belt. A surly young Communist with an axe to grind could be turned into a pawn to be moved at Ocelot's leisure.

Soldiers like Vulich were an endangered species these days. They had been hunted nearly to extinction. Ocelot knew this, because he had personally ended the lives of more of them than most people knew existed.

However, conservationism wasn't the reason Ocelot decided to let Vulich enjoy his natural habitat a little longer. Sergei Gurlukovich had always proved too stubborn to be of any use; he had needed to die. His daughter, on the other hand, had been malleable. Ocelot had known it from the first time he met her. As for Vulich, he was still young, and though there were only a few troops under his command, he didn't yet have the experience to lead them. With time, he would only become stronger, but at the moment he didn't even have Olga's iron constitution. Ocelot would be keeping an eye on him. Vulich was a feral little beast, and he might attack if he felt cornered. He might gnaw off his own limb to escape the snare Ocelot had set for him.

Ocelot shook his head slightly. Maybe he was exaggerating a little, injecting a bit of the theatrical. He had been afraid things were going to be boring, and he could learn to live with a lot, but not with the thought that his long career would end with a whisper rather than with a rifle report.

His hands were beginning to fail him, and if they didn't, then something else would. His eyes, his knees, his mind… He had lived a lot of life, just like he had always known he would. His regrets were few, just like he had always known they would be.

Now it was time to end things gracefully.

There was no return flight to America for him. He had received his instructions in the same Victorian drawing room as always, from the same men, all in tasteful pinstripe suits and expressions he couldn't quite make out. They had mentioned nothing about how he should arrange for an escape route. He hadn't asked. He understood what was happening.

There was no sense getting upset about it.

Partway down the hall was a plain steel door, unnumbered, unmarked, and unremarkable. It was easy to walk past a door like that every day and never wonder what was behind it. Even a place like Groznyj Grad needed supply closets and network terminal rooms; anything more important than that should have had cameras, guards, security that rivaled the rest of the compound.

But whoever had put this door here knew as well as Ocelot did that sometimes no amount of security could be enough. Sometimes it just took a little trickery to get the job done.

Ocelot removed his glove. He hardly ever took them off – rarely to sleep, almost never to fuck – and the palm of his left hand was still smooth, uncallused by his guns. The only place still unscarred after sixty years of war. It didn't match his right hand at all. Liquid had never been very good at taking care of himself.

He was unaccustomed to being humiliated, and so Ocelot remembered his one great shame very clearly. Waking in the basement of that clinic in Lyon and realizing that he recognized the tattoo of a barcode over his new right wrist; that first instant, still half-asleep, when he realized that the code was for him. He was their experiment now.

And still, there was no sense getting upset.

Ocelot's fingers curled around the metal handle of the door, but he didn't try to turn it. It was locked, of course. But as he held his hand there, he felt the metal heat beneath his palm, taking an impression of his fingerprints.

After a moment, he heard the lock click open and he went inside. The door opened onto the seamless walls of an elevator; Ocelot stepped inside and a steel grate slid down behind him. The elevator moved, taking him downward. There was a little jolt as he slid past the concrete foundation of the fortress, and then the ride was smooth.

Sometimes Ocelot couldn't help but wonder if things couldn't have been different. If there couldn't have been a moment somewhere along the line, when he could have said no. When he could have walked away…

But perhaps the real question was, would he have taken an opportunity like that if it presented itself? Even knowing everything he knew now, Ocelot couldn't be certain he would ever have wanted things to be different. And so, it was best not to think about the past, especially when he was somewhere like this: Groznyj Grad, where he could feel the hot breath of everything he had left behind.

The fluorescent lighting above him flickered. Ocelot put out a hand to steady himself against the wall a split second before the elevator ground to a halt. The lights went out, plunging him into darkness.

The last time he had been in this base, surges like this had been an almost daily occurrence, an unfortunate side effect of generating all their power onsite. It was more annoying than comforting to think that some things never changed.

Ocelot didn't notice the chill until the fingers of his ungloved hand were already stinging from it, and even then, he couldn't pinpoint the exact moment the inside of the elevator had turned icy cold, as though it had been that way all along, just waiting for him to notice it.

He froze, tensing. He couldn't see, but he knew his breath was fogging in the air before him.

He couldn't see, but he knew that he wasn't alone in here anymore. There wasn't anything tangible, no sound or smell or heat off another body, just the unsettling feeling of being watched. The same one he had felt up on the mountain that morning.

Ocelot could feel his pulse racing. Hitting his ribcage and surging up against the point of his jaw. He wasn't going to turn around. He didn't want to turn around…

His mouth was dry, his throat already raw from the cold. He clenched his hands at his sides and gasped, "Vanya?"

The name was hardly more than a whisper, but as the last syllable passed his lips, a spasm of pain raced up his right arm. Ocelot caught his breath sharply, doubling over and pulling his arm to his chest.

This wasn't the dull ache of his failing joints. It was older than that, and more familiar. A searing tongue of fire that seemed to race up each muscle and tendon, reaching for his shoulder, wrapping around his throat…

Ocelot squeezed his eyes shut, and so he didn't notice at first that the lights had flickered back on. Then the elevator rattled on its tracks, and began to move again. As he straightened up, he realized the pain had faded. Not just diminished, but vanished as though it had never been there at all. He couldn't even remember exactly what it had felt like, only that it had been blinding.

Knowing he had only had a few moments before the elevator doors slid open again, Ocelot caught his breath quickly, pulling his glove back on.

Whatever was happening, he wasn't going to let it get in his way.

There was no sense getting upset about this either.

The grate in front of the elevator lifted, opening onto a narrow steel corridor. The hall was empty except for a double door at the far end, guarded by two sentries in Russian uniforms. They weren't Gurlukovich troops, and they snapped smartly to attention when they saw Ocelot coming. He walked past them without a word, through the doors.

There wasn't much to the lab but two small offices and a few computer terminals. The carpet was a soft executive blue; there was a coffee machine in one corner, and a sofa. There were no windows; that was the only way to tell that these rooms – no bigger together than a nice hotel suite – were actually a mile underground, buried beneath a vault of reinforced steel, wearing the fortress of Groznyj Grad like a hermit crab wears a shell.

"Shalashaska."

A young man in a white lab coat cut between the desks to meet him at the door. He dusted off his hand, and offered it. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Shalashaska. You’ll have to forgive the delay in having you down to the lab. I’ve only just arrived back. I trust you weren’t too bored?”

“Not at all,” Ocelot replied easily, grasping the stranger’s hand firmly. “I haven’t been here long myself. I used the opportunity to reacquaint myself with the facility.”

“I see.” He gave Ocelot a calculating look. “I'm Andrei Novikov. I'm sure you’ve heard of me. I’m in charge of this project."

Ocelot took inventory with a glance. Novikov's blond hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, tucked into the collar of his lab coat. He wore a pair of rimless glasses that Ocelot wasn't entirely convinced he needed. He probably thought they made him look older, but they didn't.

Carefully, he extracted his hand from Novikov’s grasp. "You're a little young to be running something like this."

Novikov sighed, as if his credentials bored him. "Please, sir. I've received independent instruction from professors at universities in Tokyo, New York, Munich, Hong Kong, and Moscow. I have the equivalent of two PhDs; the first in artificially engineered neural intelligence, and the second in nanobiological mechanical kinesiology, a field in which I am one of only three recognized experts in the world."

He pressed his lips thin, into what Ocelot assumed was supposed to be a smile. "I don't think I would be exaggerating if I told you that I'm the only person on earth qualified to lead this project."

"It sounds like they've been grooming you for it for a long time."

Novikov shrugged. "No more than you, Shalashaska. And no less."

"Perhaps," Ocelot said. "You seem to know a lot about me. But I've never heard of you."

"I didn't think you would have. True genius often goes unrecognized in its lifetime."

"Really? I've never heard that before. Did your university professors tell you that?"  
Novikov's eyes narrowed a little, and his manner became brusque. "At any rate, it's good you're here. We don't have any shortage of scientists, but someone with your specific qualifications was difficult to find."

"So where is the experiment being kept?" Ocelot asked, though he didn't really expect Novikov to tell him. Things were rarely ever that easy.

"Somewhere safe," Novikov said. "You don't need to concern yourself with that. The external design isn't significantly different from the other models you've worked with; I'm afraid she might be a bit of a disappointment for you in person."

"She?"

"Indeed. She's most certainly female. You'd understand if you saw her, even someone as… literal as you." Novikov smiled faintly. "We call her Matryona."

"Isn't that a little disingenuous? It's not a very intimidating name."

"Isn't it?" He laughed. "You don't seem to understand what we're building here. This is not just a machine; it's the next step forward in human evolution."

"If you insist. Who's going to pilot it? You?"

"Oh, of course not. I'm a pacifist, Shalashaska. I can't stand the sight of blood."

"I should have guessed."

"I'll leave the barbarism to you," Novikov said with a shrug. He beckoned with one hand for Ocelot to follow him. "We're training the pilot on site. He's a little green yet, but I'm sure you two will get along."  
Ocelot followed him back to one of the rear offices. The door was closed, and shutters were drawn in front of the glass walls that looked out on the lab. Novikov knocked once, then, without waiting for an answer, pushed the door open.

The office had been converted into a small apartment: sterile, dark, and inhospitable. There was a small mattress on the floor. A footlocker, a dresser, and a little desk. The walls were bare; there were no pictures, no calendar brazenly counting off the days until the next scheduled leave.

On the bed, sitting with his legs crossed, was a boy with cropped blond hair. There was a gun in his lap, and a clip on the mattress beside him. It was a Czech pistol, quite common in Russia and most points east, but Ocelot had never seen it look as heavy as it did in that boy's small hands.

Novikov stepped inside, and the boy looked up. He snapped the magazine into his gun and set both aside, pushing to his feet. Ocelot didn't spend a lot of time around kids; he was no good at guessing their ages. But he knew that to say this boy was any more than six or seven was being too charitable.

"Hello, Kesha," Novikov said with a little smile.

"Please." The boy lifted his head. He had clear blue eyes, and the unblinking stare of a sniper. "I want you to call me Innokenty, Doctor."

"Innokenty. Of course. There's someone I want you to meet…"

Ocelot shook his head. "What is this, Novikov? Some kind of a joke?"

"Oh, no," Novikov said. "It's no joke."

The boy stepped forward. He had to crane his head back to look up at Ocelot's face. "Are you Shalashaska?   
Dr. Novikov tells me about you all the time. I'm Innokenty Gurlukovich."


	6. Chapter 6

Ocelot didn't need to look up to know what the expression on Novikov's face must have been like at that moment. His pale eyebrows were drawn up curiously, arching over the square frames of his glasses – watching him the same way he'd watch a butterfly with a pin through its guts. If Ocelot let on now that he was surprised, even just a little, it would be bad for his image and worse for Novikov's ego.

For both their sakes, Ocelot assumed an expression of cool disinterest as he asked, "Is this the pilot?"  
Novikov's lips compressed in disappointment. It was remarkable that a grown man could pout so effectively; Novikov must have been very used to getting what he wanted. "I'm surprised you don't recognize him, Shalashaska."

"I recognize him," Ocelot said. He set a gloved hand on Innokenty's head, giving his hair a little ruffle. "Olga's boy, aren't you?"

"That's what they tell me, sir," Innokenty said.

Ocelot nodded, then looked back to Novikov. "He's rather composed for his age, isn't he?"

"Indeed," Novikov said. "His mental growth is unprecedented. We hadn't anticipated that, but it was a fortuitous side effect of the experiment."

"You mean his training is responsible?"

"Not his training exactly. The machine itself."

"The Metal Ge-?"

"Shh." Novikov raised a hand, cutting Ocelot off. "We don't like to use that name around the lab. It makes people nervous. Besides, a Metal Gear is just a weapon, Shalashaska."

Ocelot narrowed his eyes. "Is that not what you're building here?"

Novikov exchanged a glance with Innokenty and something unspoken - a private joke - traveled between them. "That's like saying Vostok was just another rocket. Technically it's true, but putting it that way robs it of all its significance." His lips twitched into a little smile. "I must say, Shalashaska, I'm surprised that you haven't been properly briefed on this matter."

"The ones who sent me must not have the same appreciation of semantics that you do."

"Semantics?" Novikov looked annoyed. "I'm not surprised that they would say something like that. They've never been here, you know. They haven't seen what I'm doing."

"Who do you mean, Doctor?" It was an incautious question, one that would make any experienced agent cautious, but Ocelot was having a difficult time getting a lock on how much Novikov knew. Besides, Novikov was anything but an experienced agent.

"The mob. The government. The Ministry of Defense. Whoever is financing this." Novikov waved his hand dismissively. "I don't particularly care whom I'm answering to, as long as they keep transferring my funds on time."

"All in the name of science, I'm sure."

"Of course, Shalashaska. The pursuit of knowledge is what defines a man, isn't it?" He set his hand on the door. "We have an obligation to counteract ignorance where we find it. So come with me, and I'll explain everything."

Ocelot was irritated, but followed Novikov without letting it show. Innokenty turned back long enough to pick up his pistol, tucking it into the back of his jeans before catching up to them at the door.

"Think you're going to need that?" Ocelot asked him.

The boy shook his head. "It's important to always be prepared, don't you think, sir?"

"Just like a Boy Scout.”

Innokenty blinked. "Pardon me, sir?"

Novikov glanced over his shoulder. "Now, now. It's not nice to tease the poor boy." He motioned to the sofa in the corner of the lab. "Have a seat."

"Thank you," Ocelot said. But he stayed standing.

Novikov leaned against the wall, folding his arms over his lab coat. He began to speak. "Over the last century, weapons development has become a different sort of science than it ever was before. Before the atomic bomb, advancements in weaponry moved in a very predictable pattern. Stone, to bronze, to iron. Gunpowder, to explosives, to armored tanks and planes. Do you see? In the past, it was sufficient to use weapons that relied on brute strength. The only thing that ensured victory was quick and efficient slaughter."

"But that's not true any longer?"

Novikov shook his head. "Really, I'm surprised you'd say that. You came out of the Cold War, and so you ought to know better than anyone, nuclear weaponry was the final trump card. If you create a weapon so powerful that using it will ensure your own destruction as well as your enemy's, then you've failed. It doesn't matter how powerful nuclear weapons become, they're already too powerful to be of any use. So, how do you take the next step forward? How do you make a stronger weapon?"

"You don't," Ocelot said, surmising easily what Novikov wanted to hear. "You make a smarter weapon."

"Exactly," Novikov said. "Guided missiles, stealth planes, ARSENAL Gear… In classical warfare, two armies would line up on opposing hilltops. They'd spend a day hacking each other to pieces, and at night they’d bury each other’s dead. I'm sure you would find that amusing, Shalashaska, but it's simply not viable anymore. Why send a thousand men into battle, when you can send only one to infiltrate the enemy's ranks and bring them down from within? Much less messy that way."

"Is that what you think?" Ocelot sighed quietly. Novikov liked listening to himself talk. Ocelot knew already that it might be a long time before the doctor got around to telling him what he needed to know, and these days, he wasn't very good at being patient. "I appreciate the history lesson, but what does that have to do with your machine?"

"Are you familiar with Deep Blue, Shalashaska?"

"The chess computer?"

"Yes," Novikov said. "A machine capable of generating and analyzing 200 million chess positions in three minutes. A human grandmaster can calculate only about 500 in the same amount of time. A machine like that should have been able to beat any human being on the planet, yet in two consecutive matches, it lost to human opponents. Do you know why that is?"

Ocelot tilted his chin back. "Why, Doctor?"

Novikov laughed. "To be honest, I haven't a clue. No one does, not really, and that's the point. It's impossible for any human to know exactly how the human mind works. As Kant said, the mind can never completely know itself. We know that things like instinct and intuition exist, but we don't know why. We don't know how to define them, and so we will never be able to create an exact artificial replica of the human mind."

"Sounds like your research is a failure then," Ocelot said. "A little anticlimactic, don't you think?"

"Oh, no, far from it." Novikov smiled. "Because a human mind was never what I set out to create. I wanted something better."

"Indeed? And how do you propose to do that?"

"Hybridization," Novikov said. "The fusion of a human brain and a super computer." He laced his fingers together. "A new entity, with the benefits of both, and the drawbacks of neither."

Ocelot shook his head. "If that were true, then it would mean the machine is--"

"Alive?" Novikov’s expression brightened at the thought. "That's very perceptive of you."

"How?" Ocelot demanded.

"No need to get impatient. Haven't I been candid with you so far?" He leaned back again. "As you know, we have been experimenting with a system that simulates organic life in machines for some time now. The Americans were the first to put it into practice seven years ago. Simulated low-level brain functions were included in the programming of their Metal Gear RAYs. If I recall, you had the opportunity to pilot one. Did you notice it?"

"I'm not entirely sure what I was looking for," Ocelot said.

"The machine would have responded to attacks launched against it, for instance."

"Are you saying that RAY could feel pain?"

Novikov smiled. A thin, secretive smile that made Ocelot's temples throb with irritation. Something about this man got under his skin.

"Not exactly," Novikov said. "But the machine does register each impact, and is programmed to react by bringing damaged sections of the body out of the range of fire, and automatically counterattacking with machine gun turrets. The RAY unit you and Sergei Gurlukovich were so brazen as to procure had a very early model of the system. However, the RAYs that were mass-produced at the Big Shell facility had a more advanced version, one which gave them the equivalent of basic animal responses to danger. Fight or flight, if you will. I heard there was quite a scuffle on board ARSENAL Gear with some of the units. If that was the case, then you must have noticed it: heavily damaged RAYs would withdraw from battle and allow other units to take their places."

"A machine with self-preservation, then? Amusing, but what does it accomplish?"

"Much," Novikov said. "Unlike an injured human, of whom there is a near inexhaustible supply, a damaged unit can be repaired more easily and more cost effectively than it can be replaced."

"So it's purely an economical concern."

Novikov shook his head. "Never. Because, you see, Shalashaska, for all the US military's sound and fury over the development of the RAY units, they were really nothing more than crude prototypes for our own Matryona."  
Ocelot raised an eyebrow. "Which means?"

When Novikov spoke, there was a smile in his voice that wasn't on his lips. "Which means, that while the Americans are still fucking around at the kids table, I've taken their system and made it perfect."

"Impressive," Ocelot said. "And more than a little intimidating. How did you do it?"

"Actually, it was Kesha here who was the key."

Ocelot glanced at Innokenty. The boy looked calm, as though accustomed to being talked about like he wasn't there. “He’s only a boy.”

"Yes," Novikov replied, "but it hasn't stopped him from doing great things. It's as I’ve said, there is no way to artificially replicate the human mind. My predecessors spent decades trying and never achieved satisfactory results. But it was I, Shalashaska, who realized there was no need for a replica at all. Not when there are plenty of perfectly good human minds already."

"I thought experimenting on humans was frowned upon."

"Maybe," Novikov said. "But did you know that most people only use an estimated ten percent of their brains? Psychics, genetically modified humans; they may use two to five percent more, but that's all. With all that untapped potential, I find it difficult to think of what I'm doing here as unethical."

"What are you doing exactly, Doctor?" Ocelot said.

Novikov lifted one hand, waving Innokenty closer. He brushed some of the boy's blond hair away from his temple. A pale, razor-straight surgical scar slashed across his skin, disappearing into his hairline.

"Bio-mechanical implants," Novikov said, letting Innokenty go. The boy stepped back, out of the way. "They operate on the same basic technology as Codec, but we've adapted them to resonate with his neurological impulses. There are similar devices in use in the machine's onboard computer system. They're tuned to the same frequency, providing an uninterrupted flow of data back and forth."

Novikov grinned, obviously pleased. Ocelot's expression didn't change. "What does that mean?”

"It means, they're like two networked computer terminals, passing information back and forth to each other. This conversation, everything Kesha experiences, is being transmitted to Matryona's computer. Only it's not a direct transmission. It's been filtered through Kesha's mind, colored by his perspectives…"

"And so you think he's teaching your machine to think like a human."

"Yes." Novikov nodded. "Precisely. By the time we're through, we'll have a seamless combination of computational logic and human intuition. Now do you see why Matryona isn't just a Metal Gear? She was never intended to be controlled by men; she was intended to replace them. Imagine a commanding officer who never makes a mistake, capable of analyzing a combat situation in moments and making an instantaneous decision about how to best proceed…"

Ocelot felt a little sting of resentment at Novikov's words, as though the young man had meant them personally. Novikov had been leveling sly insults at him since they had meant, but Ocelot knew this wasn't one of them. To Novikov, it was completely natural that his machine would replace human warriors.

Even Ocelot, after all, had his share of mistakes behind him…

"That's fascinating, Doctor," he said evenly. "If it works, that is. But that doesn't explain the pilot." He glanced at Innokenty. The boy straightened a little under his scrutiny. "Why a child?"

"Kesha came to us very young, which actually made him the ideal candidate for the program," Novikov said. "Humans begin to develop language very early in their mental growth. To avoid snags in communication, we wanted him to begin exchanging information with the computer before his linguistic development progressed too far. Kesha was only six months old when we implanted the transmitters. Likewise, Matryona's onboard computer was still relatively early in the programming phase. One could say that human and machine grew up together, like a cat and dog which are raised together from a young age, and in adulthood behave similarly. It has produced some unexpected side effects, hasn't it, Kesha?"

The boy nodded slightly. He looked straight ahead, past both of them. "Advanced learning via subconscious projection. I think."

"Which means?" Though Ocelot was looking at Innokenty, Novikov answered for him. "While the computer is learning from the man, it seems the man is also learning from the computer. He's a five-year-old reading at a high school level. He's recently taught himself calculus."

"He's a genius, then?"

"Hardly," Novikov said. "In IQ tests, he routinely scores between 110 and 120. Smart, but not that smart. He simply has the intellect of an adult, though physically and emotionally he's still a child."

Ocelot nodded slowly, taking it in. Something in Novikov's words pricked at him, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was. After a moment, the feeling passed. "It sounds like you're doing great things here.   
It makes me wonder what you need me for."

"Rest assured, Shalashaska, we'll make good use of you." Novikov laughed. "You have a very specific field of expertise."

"All I know with any certainty, Doctor, is war."

"Exactly. You'll be helping with Kesha's training. We've been having him study the combat data of some of the greatest warriors of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Big Boss and his sons, the members of Foxhound, Dead Cell, and their Russian and Middle Eastern counterparts…" Novikov gave him a wry look. "Don't worry, Shalashaska. You made the cut."

"What a relief," Ocelot muttered.

"At any rate," Novikov said, "We'll be having you oversee that portion of the training. As he will be passing what he learns on to Matryona, it's very important that nothing be lacking."

"I understand," Ocelot said. "You don't have anything to worry about, Doctor. I haven't had an assignment this easy in sixty years. It's like a vacation." He tried to laugh, but the sound didn't come out quite the way he wanted it to.

"Well, Innokenty," Ocelot continued, turning to glance at the boy. "It seems you and I are going to be getting well acquainted, aren't we?" Ocelot frowned. "Innokenty?"

The boy didn't answer. He looked pale, and he wavered slightly on his feet. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his temples, and his eyes were focused on some point far past the two of them.

"Shit," Novikov muttered under his breath. He stepped forward, taking Innokenty's elbow. "Kesha, what have I told you?"

"I know," Innokenty said hoarsely. "But it really wasn't that bad. I didn't think I should--" He stiffened abruptly on Novikov's hold, wrapping both arms around his stomach. He leaned heavily against Novikov, doubled over, and vomited.

Novikov made a face, but he put an arm around Innokenty's shoulders as he dry heaved. With the other hand, he waved a lab technician over. "It's okay, Kesha. You can puke on my shoes."   
Innokenty wavered on his feet, clutching at Novikov's sleeve as he sank down to his knees.

"Overdid it a little, didn't we?" Novikov murmured as he picked Innokenty up, handing him off to the technician. He watched until they disappeared back into the boy's room.

"He'll be fine," he said. "Just let him sleep it off."


	7. Chapter 7

Novikov propped his foot up on the arm of the sofa. He took a handful of tissue from beside the coffee machine and began to dab calmly at his shoe. "Well, Shalashaska, I don't think I have much else to tell you."  
Ocelot inclined his head in the direction Innokenty had disappeared. "What's wrong with him?"

"Just a side effect of his training."

Ocelot was quiet a moment, expecting more, but Novikov said nothing. "So, it's happened before?"

Novikov glanced up at him, but didn't answer. He had been so blithely accommodating only a moment ago, but he was withholding something now. It made Ocelot a little uneasy. Nothing in his expression or in his posture changed, but something flickered behind his eyes and he was on guard.

"Is it something I need to worry about?" he asked.

"Not at all." Novikov finished cleaning his shoe, and straightened up again. "It's under control. Just leave everything to us."

"Of course," Ocelot said. "I assume you won't be needing me for the rest of the day?"

"Kesha should be back on his feet in a few hours. Check in with us this afternoon."

"And until then?"

Novikov shrugged. "Well, no offense intended of course, but I'm afraid you'll just be in the way if you stay here."

"And bored, I'm sure."

"We're just not as exciting as what you're used to." His lips tugged up into a smooth smile. He cocked his wrists sharply, pointing at Ocelot with two fingers of each hand. "Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do."

Ocelot had begun to turn away, but something about Novikov just then – his cocky smile, or something else entirely – made him pause. He reached out, setting a hand over one of Novikov's wrists and pushing it down. "I'll be fine."

But as he turned away, there was a hollow ache in the pit of his stomach.

He couldn't quite place what he found so unsettling, and the nagging sensation of dejà vu had already begun to fade.

Ocelot didn't hesitate at the elevator, but as the steel doors slid shut behind him he drew a deep breath, like a sigh. This time, there was no gaze boring into the back of his neck, no stinging cold.

But he knew that didn't mean he was alone.

He couldn't let that bother him now. Something was being kept from him. It was Ocelot's job to know when he was being manipulated. He was an expert at lies – at telling them and at unraveling them – but he knew that if Innokenty hadn't collapsed back in the lab, he never would have known that anything was wrong.

That boy was suffering from more than exhaustion. Ocelot didn't fear for Innokenty's life: the boy had the bad luck to get involved in this, and that was all. It hadn't been Ocelot's fault, but it wasn't his responsibility, either. What did have him a little worried was the way Novikov had become so abruptly secretive when Ocelot had asked what was wrong.

Already, he was replaying their conversation in his head, trying to draw a line where the truth had ended and the lies had begun.

The elevator came to a halt at the top of the shaft. There was a slight hesitation before the door slid back; an external camera monitoring the hall made sure that the elevator wouldn't open if there were unauthorized personnel in the area. When the locking mechanism clicked open, Ocelot stepped out, turning toward the east wing of the fortress.

This time of day, the northeast yard would be nearly abandoned. He'd be able to put his thoughts in order without attracting too much attention.

On his way out, he passed the corridor that led to the soldiers' barracks. Half of Vulich's men, the ones who had been assigned to patrol during the graveyard shift, were asleep this time of day. The lights in the hall were out, except for the blue emergency bulbs above each door.

Ocelot paused, staring down the corridor for a moment, to the place where it tapered into shadow.

***

In the recent weeks, since his promotion to Major, Ocelot had taken to sneaking into the barracks during the day. Between reveille and nightfall, the rooms were empty, and he had come to look forward to a few moments spent in silence.

Ocelot had been raised among soldiers, had been accustomed to their routines since before he could walk. Sleeping, eating, training; all in the company of a hundred other people. He had never known what privacy was until now. His new position afforded him a little extra freedom to move around the base, and so he made the time, nearly every afternoon, to spend a few moments here.

The lights in the barracks were turned off during the day to conserve power, but a single blue bulb glowed faintly above the door. Ocelot took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, then he stepped further inside.

Bunks, three high, pressed up against all the walls. The room smelled of sweat and cigarettes and smuggled food. Ocelot pulled his hat off, tossing it on one of the mattresses, and ran a hand through his hair.

The door behind him slid open, flooding the room with white light from the hallway.

"Adamska Ivanovich, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to avoid me."

Ocelot spun on his heels, one hand falling to the butt of his gun. He didn’t draw, but his eyes narrowed as if taking aim at a target. "Raikov… What the hell are you doing here?"

"Shh." There was a soft click as Raikov pushed the door closed, severing the column of bright light and leaving them in bruise-blue half-darkness. "You're a hard man to get alone," Raikov said. "I've been watching you, you know."

"I know," Ocelot said, glancing away. "You ought to be more careful. I won't bail you out if anything happens."

Raikov laughed. "Adamska, you're so sweet." His boots made almost no sound as he stepped forward. "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself. To tell you the truth, it's you I'm worried about."

Ocelot backed off a step as Raikov drew closer. "Don't try to be cute…"

Raikov sighed. "You see? That's your problem. You don't take anything seriously."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Raikov reached out, setting his hand on Ocelot's chest. "Do I make you nervous, Adam? Can't figure out what game I'm playing?" His fingers curled slightly, rumpling Ocelot's uniform. "A good agent has to know what everyone is doing, all the time."

"I know that," Ocelot said. He pushed Raikov's hand away. "I told you before, don't touch me."

Raikov twisted his wrist, disengaging his hand from Ocelot's and setting it back against his chest. "Someone like Volgin, he's easy to read. I think working around him has spoiled you."

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" Ocelot muttered, glancing away. He refused to let Raikov intimidate him. The major was more clever than Ocelot had first given him credit for, but these were still clumsy, amateurish mind games.

But when Raikov leaned against him like that, Ocelot's heart beat a little faster.

Raikov shook his head. "And you think I’m the cute one? Don't ever change, Adam." His fingertips trailed down Ocelot's chest. "You're perfect, just like this."

Ocelot's hands twitched at his sides, but this time he stopped himself before he reached for Raikov. "Stop," he said. "Stop, now."

"Stop what?" Raikov teased one of his uniform buttons. "Stop flattering you? There's no need to be so humble, Adam."

"Stop touching me.”

Raikov paused, glancing up. His eyes met Ocelot's for a moment, and they were close enough that Ocelot could make out their color, even in the dim light. Raikov smiled faintly, lifting his hand away. He spun sharply on his heels, turning his back on Ocelot.

"I know," he said quietly, "that you don't think very much of me. But you can learn a lot keeping a commander's bed warm."

"That's not what this is about," Ocelot muttered.

"Maybe not. But you have something Volgin wants. And so do I. We're not that different."

"That doesn't mean I trust you."

"Do you trust anyone?"

"Not really," Ocelot said.

"Good. Then I don't feel so bad."

"Major…" Ocelot sighed. "Why are you here? Who sent you?"

"Someone who's looking out for you." Raikov shrugged. "But then, that could be anyone, right? You're so talented, Adam. Wherever you go from now on, people are going to know you."

"I'm talented enough that I don't need anyone looking out for me."

"I guess not. But is it really the worst thing you can imagine?" Raikov reached into his coat, and took out a small white envelope. "Look. I even brought you a present."

Ocelot was wary. "What is it?"

"Something you want." Raikov stroked the edge of the envelope over his palm. "Codes to the vault where   
Volgin keeps The Legacy."

Ocelot stopped himself before he reached for the envelope. "You're bluffing."

"Now you're just being silly."

"Where'd you get them?"

"From Volgin." Raikov laughed. "He wrote them down. He was afraid of forgetting. Then he realized he was afraid of losing the paper, so he gave it to me to hold onto. Didn't say what it was, but it was easy enough to figure out."

"So you got lucky. That's what you're telling me."

"If you want." Raikov held out the envelope. "And now you're getting lucky. Do you want it, or not?"  
Though he still wasn't sure he believed Raikov, Ocelot reached out.

"No." He waited until Ocelot's fingers brushed the edge of the envelope before pulling it back, out of reach. "What are you going to give me in return?"

"What do you want?"

"Oh, I don't know. Something that tells me just how much you appreciate me risking my life like this.” Raikov worried his lip thoughtfully between his teeth, and then, abruptly, he smiled. "How about a kiss."  
Ocelot recoiled. The back of his knee hit one of the bunks, and the springs squealed sharply. “You’re kidding.”

Raikov laughed, covering his mouth to hide the sound. "What's wrong with a kiss? I didn't think you'd be so prudish, Adam."

"It's not that."

"But I suppose, I was shy too my first time. Are you really a virgin, Adam?"

"Of course not!" Ocelot glanced away, glad the room was dark. He could feel that he was blushing. "That's not the point."

"Then what is?" When Ocelot didn't answer right away, Raikov relented. "All right. No kiss, then. Will you at least answer my question?"

"What question?" Ocelot asked warily.

Raikov stepped forward, setting his hand lightly on Ocelot's chest, swaying against him. "Why do I make you so nervous?" he whispered.

"You…" But Ocelot knew it was impossible to deny. Raikov had seen right through him. Even though he had been ready for it this time, his breath had still caught a little when the Major touched him.

"I don't know what you want," Ocelot admitted. "I know there's something you're not telling me, but I can't figure out what it is." He set his hand over Raikov's. "Satisfied?"

Raikov nodded. "I'm satisfied." He flicked his wrist, tossing the envelope onto the bed behind Ocelot before pulling away. "Take good care of that, Adam."

He backed off a few steps, the shadows swallowing his expression, all the details of his face, leaving only an impression of a man in the darkness. "Honestly, though, if you really want to know, you can just ask me."

"Will I like the answer?"

Raikov shrugged. "Maybe." He pulled open the door. Light from the hallway cut across the floor like a saber stroke. For an instant, Raikov was framed by it and Ocelot couldn't make out the details of him at all. He was just a dark silhouette against white fluorescent fire.

Then he swung around the corner and was gone.

***

Ocelot shook his head slightly. It was a strange thing to remember so clearly, but even now he could see the way Raikov's hair had looked under the blue light. He could recall perfectly the faint, faded bruise below his right eye, the one Ocelot hadn't been able to make it out until Raikov leaned in to kiss him.

He could remember that he hadn't felt any pity for him, but he had wondered if Raikov had bruises like that everywhere. Wondering how it could be that he still felt no pity, even now, Ocelot looked away from the dark hallway, and he moved on.


	8. Chapter 8

"What time do you think it is back home?" Raiden asked. He stood at the glass doors that opened onto the balcony. The sky was cloudless, and a breeze blew in from the ocean, rustling the potted plants on the veranda. The hard Mediterranean sun stretched his shadow across the floor of their suite, over the narrow twin beds and up the opposite wall.

Vamp glanced up briefly. "About two in the morning. Are you homesick already?"

"Just jetlagged,” Raiden sighed. “I never thought New York and Athens would be so far apart."

"Have another drink," Vamp said, tipping his head toward the bottle of ouzo on the table between the beds. They had picked it up along with a stack of road maps in a little shop in hotel lobby. Now, the bottle was almost empty, and the maps were spread out end-to-end on the floor, folded over and pieced together.

"I can't believe we're doing this." Raiden turned sharply, putting his back to the open window. He snatched up the bottle. "This is so fucking stupid."

Vamp didn't look up. "You're in my light."

"Sorry," Raiden muttered, sinking back on the bed. After a moment, he leaned over so he could watch Vamp's hands. "How's it coming?"

"I'm nearly done." Vamp pointed with his pen, tracing the route he had mapped out for them: A straight line north from Athens, a long lazy curve around the Mediterranean, then northwest from there.

"Just like Indiana Jones," Raiden said.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Vamp's eyebrows drew together, but then he shook his head. "I tried to stick to the major cities. The oil shortage has hit pretty hard here. We probably won't be able to find gas for the car in the countryside."

"So how long is it going to take?"

"If everything goes well tonight, we'll leave Athens in the morning." Vamp pointed on the map. "Spend the first night in Sofia, then we'll cross the mountains and spend a night in Isai, and then a night in Kharkiv. That's right on the Russian border."

Raiden nodded. "What about after that?"

"After that, Russia is a big country. Let's hope your contact has managed to find our man by then."

"He'll find him," Raiden said sharply. "He's good at that."

"Then we have nothing to worry about."

Vamp stood, leaving the maps spread out on the floor. If he was uncertain about what they had done, or nervous about what they were planning to do, it never showed. Nothing interrupted the smooth natural grace of his movements.

Maybe he was as collected as he seemed. Raiden wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse.

Vamp poured the last of the bottle of ouzo into his glass. He watered it down and the clear liquor turned murky, a fine white cloud swirling up from the bottom of the cup. He sipped it as he looked out the window, past the narrow ribbon of beach, to the blue water beyond it. In this light, he looked different than he had before. The arrogant set of his jaw softened a little; his cold eyes warmed by the sun.

Raiden looked away, afraid he had been staring.

He slid off the bed, and sat down on the floor so he could get a better look at the collage of maps, and the bold black line that cut across them. Five countries in four days; Raiden had never seen that much of the world. He hadn't been out of the United States in fifteen years, and even now he hardly remembered anything of his life before.

He slid his fingers idly over the maps, then paused in the little groove between two of them. "Romania…?   
Isn't that where you're from, Adrian?"

"It is."

"Oh." Vamp didn't sound upset by the question; he just didn't sound like he wanted talk about it, either.   
But, Raiden reminded himself, it wasn't as though he'd ever had good judgment in dealing with people. "Are we going by your old hometown?"

This time, Vamp looked back at him. "I don't know."

"What do you mean? You've got it all mapped out."

Vamp sighed. "The village I was born in is somewhere in the Carpathian Mountains. I don't remember anything else. I probably wouldn't even recognize it anymore."

"Are you serious? That's a little hard to believe."

"Is it?" Vamp sighed, turning away from the window and sitting on the edge of one of the beds. "Tell me,   
Jack, what do you remember of your childhood? Can you even find Liberia on a map?"

Raiden felt his cheeks flush. "How did you know about that?"

"Solidus told me everything about you. More than I wanted to know."

"Well, Solidus is a bastard," Raiden muttered.

"Indeed."

"I'm glad you noticed, too." Raiden shifted around so he could look at Vamp. "You know, I used to watch the president on TV and wonder if I was going insane. I couldn't stop thinking about how much he looked like my dad." He sighed. "And I know where Liberia is. I'm not stupid, you know."

"I know you aren’t," Vamp said.

Raiden looked down, running his eyes over the map again. "I've never done anything like this before. Freelance work, I mean. I've always had someone there to tell me what to do, decide my next move for me. All I had to be good at was following orders."

"Did you prefer it that way?" Vamp asked quietly.

"Hell, I don't know. It was a lot easier. It was nice to not have to think too hard. But I felt like such a fucking tool." Raiden laughed weakly. "Do you really think we'll find him, Adrian?"

"I think so. The world is too small to hide a man like Revolver Ocelot."

"Actually, I meant that Gurlukovich kid. Maybe Ocelot can't hide forever, but it's easy for a kid like that to kind of just… disappear."

"But it's not your responsibility. Are you going to save the whole world, Jack? Take a bullet for everyone who asks?" Vamp shook his head. "You'll get old very quickly doing that."

Raiden's hands clenched against the carpet. "I made a promise, okay? I suppose you think revenge is a much better reason for being here."

"I never said that."

"I know," Raiden said, "that the only reason I'm here with you is because I have something you want. You don't have to act like you're watching my back. I can take care of myself just fine."

Vamp shrugged, pushing to his feet. "Fair enough."

"Wait. Where are you going?"

"Out," Vamp said, unzipping his bag and pulling a few things from it. "I've never been to Greece before. I'm not going to spend the whole time arguing semantics in a hotel room."

"You're joking," Raiden said.

Vamp tilted his head. "Are you coming?"

"Oh… no." Raiden shook his head. "I think I'm just going to try to get some sleep."

"Suit yourself. If your contact calls?"

"I've got your Skype number."

"Good boy," Vamp said, and then he was gone.

***

And there, in a strange room of a strange city, Raiden slept, and dreamed of home. His apartment in New York, the offices and the taxis; the walk to the little bakery down the street: all of them were familiar, but at the same time nothing like the places he had left.

They were hollow, windows black and empty, like a film set of New York grafted over nothing at all. A clever illusion to cover the truth.

In his dream, the wind blew through the streets, tearing at his clothes and screaming in his ears.

Raiden's eyes snapped open, and for a moment he was blinded by the late-afternoon sunlight streaming around the edges of the curtains. Numb and half-asleep, he could almost still hear the wailing of a cold wind, one long, shrill note that rose and receded, and…

Raiden sighed, rolling onto his back and grabbing his phone off the table next to the bed. He stabbed at the keypad with one finger, and then brought it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Jack?"

"Oh…" Raiden sighed, sitting up in bed so the sheets pooled in his lap. "Hal."

"It's me," Otacon said. "Is something wrong? You sound kind of strange."

"It's nothing. Have you got anything for me?"

"Well, yeah. But Jack…" Otacon hesitated. "Are you sure you want this information? I don't know what you're planning, but Snake--"

"Shit." Raiden sighed. "You didn't tell him about this, did you?"

"Not yet. Should I?"

"No. He doesn't need to know. Don't say anything, and I'll be back before he ever finds out."

"Back? What do you mean? Where are you?"

Raiden dragged himself out of bed, grabbing his jeans from the floor. "I'm in Athens, actually."

"Athens?" Otacon echoed. "What are you doing in Georgia?"

"Athens, _Greece_ , Hal."

"Oh." For a second, Otacon was silent. "You're really serious about this, aren't you?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Holding the phone with his shoulder, Raiden tugged his jeans on. "Stop worrying. We'll be all right."

"We…?"

Raiden rolled his eyes. "Yes, we. Me and… Adrian."

"Who's Adrian? I don't know anyone by that name."

"You've met him," Raiden said.

"Well, I don't remember him."

"You've met him."

Otacon clicked his tongue. "Let me get this straight, Jack. You're halfway around the world, in a romantic Mediterranean paradise… with a strange man that none of us have ever met?"

"For God’s sake, Hal!"

"Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course."

"Listen to me. It's not like that. This is business, and that's all."

"All right," Otacon sighed. "If you say so. I just want you to know, though, it's snowing in New York right now."

"Hal!"

"All right, all right. Listen, I've got a set of coordinates for you."

"That's more like it." Raiden sat down on the bed, pulling a pad of hotel stationery – pale blue and watermarked with a silhouette of The Parthenon – into his lap. "Go ahead."

"Have you got a pen?"

"Yes, Hal, I've got a pen."

"And paper?"

"And paper. What's wrong with you?"

"There's no need to get upset," Otacon said. "I'm deleting this file after I give the information to you. I want to make sure you get it all."

"I said, I'm ready, Hal!"

"All right," Otacon said. "There's no need to yell. You'll live a lot longer if you stay calm, you know."

"I am calm!"

"Sure you are," Otacon muttered. "Anyway, here's what I found for you. I tracked one of Ocelot's fake passports to a private airfield in the southern part of Russia. I lost sight of him there, but the airfield is adjacent to a parcel of government-owned land."

"What kind of land?" Raiden asked.

"A strip about 40 miles wide that runs along the Kazakh border. On paper, it's just a nature preserve."

"I get it. But what's it really for?"

"I'm not sure," Otacon said. "But I looked through the Defense Department's satellite photos and found something a little unusual."

"What's that?"

"They're building something in the mountains. I'm not entirely sure what it is, but it's big. Went up fast, too. I tried to figure it out, but they've covered up their tracks pretty well. Outsourced all the work through nations in the Caucuses. The site has been getting huge shipments of materials from somewhere in Afghanistan."

"And you think that's where Ocelot is?"

"It's my best guess. There's nothing else but wilderness for a hundred miles in every direction."

"Don't you know anything else?"

"Not really," Otacon said. "The whole area's closed to the public, but if you go in on foot the foliage should provide you with cover. Are you armed?"

"I will be."

"Be careful."

"You always say that."

"Because you don't know what that country is like. They still have KGB there, you know."

"I'll be fine," Raiden said. "Don't worry." He paused for a moment. "And don't tell Snake."

"Don't worry, and keep it a secret from Snake… just what I'm best at," Otacon muttered. "You know, if you die I'll never hear the end of it."

"I'm not going to die," Raiden said. "Just tell me where I'm headed, all right?"

He wrote down the coordinates that Otacon read to him, folded the paper over, but kept it in his hand. "Thanks, Hal."

"Just come back in one piece."

Raiden rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Mom."

"I'll call you if I find out anything else. See you, Jack."

There was a click, and then silence. Raiden flipped the paper in his hand open, stared at the two numbers he had written there, like a message left behind by the newly dead.

***

He caught up with Vamp down by the ocean, on the little beach adjacent to their hotel. The sun had started to sink low, and out over the water the sky was graying and tarnished. On the horizon, the waves had begun to blacken like smoke.

When Vamp saw him approaching, he sat up, closing the thick paperback book he had been reading and setting it in his lap. He brushed flecks of sand from his bare shoulders. On his chest, a row of scars of stood out starkly against his pale skin. "Jack."

"Hey," Raiden said. The sand was still warm, and as he sat down he dug his hands into it. "How long have you been out here?"

"A couple of hours." He glanced at Raiden, and his lips curled into a sly smile. "Some lovely college students came by and shared their sunscreen with me."

"I'm glad you're taking this so seriously," Raiden muttered. He pointed at the scars on Vamp's chest. "Didn't they notice those?"

"I'm taking this extremely seriously. I told them I had my appendix removed."

In the fading light, Vamp looked cool and pale as one of the marble statues they had seen on the taxi ride from the airport, something he hadn't quite been able to place until now. Raiden's gaze drifted downward, past Vamp's bare chest, to the spot where the book covered his lap. And he flinched away. "Oh my god. Where are your clothes?"

"Hmm?" Vamp patted a bundle next to his hip on the sand. "Right here. Why?"

"You're naked?" Raiden gasped. "Like… naked?"

"Of course," Vamp said, shrugging. "They're much less inhibited here then they are in America, you know."

"Adrian…"

"You ought to try it. I'm sure you have nothing to be embarrassed about."

Raiden paled. "No thanks."

"Suit yourself." Vamp turned toward him, bending one leg up at the knee. Raiden risked a downward glance, but the book in Vamp's lap maintained its precarious grasp. "What did you find out?"

Raiden shook his head. He dug into the pocket of his jeans with one hand, pulling out the scrap of hotel stationery. "Ocelot's last known location was an airfield in southern Russia." He handed the paper to Vamp. "He's probably headed here."

"Probably?" Vamp said skeptically.

"Yeah, probably. It's the best I've got right now."

Vamp nodded. "Then it'll have to do. Where is this place exactly?"

"Somewhere in the Ural mountains. The satellite photos show a big structure, out in the middle of nowhere, but…"

"But you don't know the specifics?"

Raiden shrugged.

"That's all right," Vamp said. "We'll do what we can with what we have. The Urals are another two day's drive from the Russian border…"

"He said we probably won't be able to get very close by vehicle."

"We'll get as close as we can," Vamp said. "Then we'll hike the rest of the way.”

"I guess it's all settled, then."

"Almost. There's just the meeting tonight to get through." Vamp glanced at him. "When we go, I want you to stay quiet, all right? Let me do the talking."

"Why? Just who is this contact of yours?"

"Acquaintances of Solidus'. I did a little work for them back in New York; they got me set up with the apartment."

"Shit," Raiden said, and then he lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "The Mafia?"

"No, Jack, the Peace Corps." Vamp shook his head. "Who else do you think is going to outfit people like us with guns?"

"I don't know," Raiden admitted. "But I didn't think that you would…"

"Know anyone like that?" Vamp shrugged. "Well, I didn't think that you would know anyone with access to Defense Department satellite surveillance. So I suppose we're even."

"I guess so," Raiden said. "I didn't know organized crime got involved in assassination plots."

"Assassins?" Vamp shook his head. "Is that what you think we are?"

"Well, sure," Raiden said. "We're going to Russia to assassinate Ocelot."

"Assassinate him under whose orders?" Vamp turned to him. His eyes were icy and impenetrable, but there was something like a smirk hiding in the lines around his mouth. "There is no political agenda here. What we're doing, is just murder."

Raiden was quiet for a moment. "I guess you're right," he said at last. "I hadn't really thought about it like that before."

"Are you really bothered by it?"

"Not as bothered as I am by the fact that you're not wearing any pants."  
The corner of Vamp's lips twitched. Raiden supposed that was the closest to a smile he ever got. "You really are prudish."

"I'm not," Raiden said. "I just didn't know…"

"Not to mention, utterly predictable."

"Oh…" Raiden wasn't sure Vamp had meant that as an insult, but it felt like one, coming from him. "Maybe I should head back to the room."

"If you want," Vamp said. "I'm going to stay and wait for the sun to go down."

Raiden leaned back on his hands, staring out over the darkening water. "But the sun's behind us. You can't see it from here."

"Does it really matter?" Vamp said. "It's the same sunset, no matter where you look."


	9. Chapter 9

"Aren't you going to sleep, Lieutenant?"

"Hmm?" Vulich glanced up from the yellowing pages of a newspaper, already three weeks old but just arrived from Moscow that morning with their rations of bread and tea. He had worked sixteen hours already, but as soon as his patrol had ended Vulich had pounced on the paper, and carried it down to the empty kitchen.   
Access to the base's computers was only for the non-military personnel, which meant that all the news from outside came in print. "What do you mean?"

The young soldier leaned over him, setting a cup of steaming black coffee on the table next to Vulich's elbow. Vulich didn't look up; he knew that if he did his eyes would be drawn to the young man's right hand and two fingers that were missing from it, sheared off at the third knuckle. The rest of his hand was covered with a tatting of pale scars, unmistakable as frostbite, which crawled up his wrist and disappeared into the cuff of his uniform.

"Sleep." the young soldier said quietly. "Don't you need it?"

Vulich frowned. "Why would I sleep in the middle of the day, Nikolai?"

He opened the paper, spreading it out on the table, and then thumbed through it, pulling out the Society, Arts, Real Estate, and Fashion sections, wadding them up and tossing them over his shoulder.

The boy laughed nervously. "You don't have to call me Nikolai, Lieutenant. Kolya's just fine."

"My father's name was Nikolai."

Kolya's gaze flicked up. His green eyes had a perpetually startled look to them; it was hard to tell when he was genuinely surprised by something. "O-oh?"

"Yes." Vulich's attention didn't waver from his newspaper. "It's a good Russian name."

"Oh."

Vulich stretched his legs out, crossing his gleaming black boots at the ankle and leaning back in his chair. His knee struck the underside of the table; the cup of coffee rattled, and almost spilled. Kolya sprang forward to steady it, using his sleeve to mop up the coffee that had splashed onto the table.

"Lieutenant," he said as he dabbed at the spill. "I never knew I had the same name as your old man."

"That's because there was never any reason to tell you."

"But it is kind of funny, don't you think?" When Vulich didn't respond, Kolya frowned slightly. "I mean, it's a coincidence."

"Don't be so naive. It's a common enough name. If you want to be precise, I'm a Nikolai, too. A Nikolaiovich, just like every son of a Nikolai across the country." He tilted his head back slightly, looking at Kolya out of the corner of his eye. "That's a lot of Nikolais, I'd say."

"Hey, you're right," Kolya said, amazed. "Lieutenant, I can't believe you have the same name as me, too.   
It's weird the way things work out, isn't it?"

Vulich sighed, and turned his attention back to the paper. He wadded up a page of film reviews, tossing them over his shoulder and hitting Kolya in the temple as he stooped to pick up the scattered newspapers.

"Leave them," Vulich said sharply. "They're full of lies."

"Then why do you read them?"

Vulich narrowed his eyes, and crushed the rest of the newspaper between his hands. "Our enemies are insidious, but I can learn their tricks."

He tossed the paper aside and pushed to his feet, grabbing the cup of coffee from the table.

"That's probably not hot anymore," Kolya said quietly. "I'll get you some fresh."

"No," Vulich snapped. "Don't waste it. There's hardly enough to go around as it is."

"Actually, some came in with the last shipment. We've got plenty."

"And what if there isn't any in the next shipment?" He turned to face Kolya, and the young soldier shoved his right hand into the pocket of his fatigue jacket, out of sight.

Vulich sighed, and his voice softened a little. "Nikolai, listen. There's no need for any of us to go hungry, but wastefulness is a vice of the rich. They squander what they have so there's nothing left. They want you to stay desperate."

"Who?" Kolya asked quietly. "The army?"

"Yes. But there are others, too. Men who want you cold and starving and sick and overworked because when you're exhausted, you can't get angry; they want you uneducated, so you don't know that they are the ones who are stealing the bread from your plates and the blankets from your bed."

He looked at Kolya, to see if he understood, but the young man's eyes were fixed firmly on the ground. He'd seen that look before, the shame of not comprehending, and he hated it even more than the looks he sometimes got right before they started throwing punches.

"Why did you join with Gurlukovich?" Vulich asked. "You were hungry, right?"

Kolya nodded. "Yeah. They said there was always food in the Army. And I didn't know that this wasn't the real Army, but there's still more food here than we had back home."

"And all I want," Vulich said, "is a country where you don't have to sell your dignity to a pack of Kleptocratic jackals for a little food. I want men who fight because they know it's just. Anything else is worse than Feudalism. It's just slavery."

Vulich turned away, kicking a wad of newspaper under the table. He picked up his murky cup of coffee, and swirled it around, displacing the film on top.

"It's all right there if you know what you're looking for. They haven't even tried to hide the truth from us, Nikolai. There are two Russias; there are two Americas. There are two separate worlds. You and I and all the good people live in one, and the privileged few who were born with money or born cruel enough to steal whatever they could, they live in the other."

His hand clenched convulsively around the coffee cup. "And they fill their vaults with the money we earn.   
They hoard it by ignoring our suffering. They build their palaces out of our bones."

Kolya shook his head, his voice lowering considerably. "Lieutenant," he said. "Be careful. If someone hears you talking like that…"

"To hell with what they think! They don't have much longer anyway."

"What do you mean?"

Vulich dug in his heels, turning back sharply to face Kolya. "I mean, one day there's going to be a rev—"

He fell abruptly silent, interrupted by the sound of footfalls from near the door. The soft click of spurs. "A rousing speech, Lieutenant. I wouldn't want to interrupt you; by all means, continue."  
Vulich straightened. "What do you want, Shalashaska?"

"Lose your train of thought?"

Vulich's hands twitched at his sides like a gunslinger's. He turned sharply to face Ocelot. "I said, what do you want?"

"Just looking for the paper." Ocelot raised an eyebrow at the wads of newspaper strewn across the floor. "Never mind."

Kolya sprang from Vulich's side, gathering up some of the sheets of newspaper and refolding them. His mangled right hand made the work clumsy. "Sorry, sir. Lieutenant Vulich was just...that is, he was…"

"Nikolai!" Vulich snapped. Kolya cringed, and his hands stumbled over the pages he was folding, tearing one of the edges.

Vulich sighed, and his voice softened. "Don't grovel."

He snapped the newspaper out of Kolya's hands and thrust it at Ocelot. "I'm surprised your puppet masters back in Moscow don't keep you better informed." He brushed past Ocelot, heading for the door.

"Lieutenant, wait." Kolya started after him.

Vulich didn't turn around, but he said, "Yes, Nikolai?"

"Umm…" Kolya hesitated a moment, glancing at Ocelot, who seemed more interested in what he was about to say then Vulich did. "What's Kleptocratic mean?"

This time, Vulich did turn back. His shoulders rose and fell once, with a deep sigh. "It means a ruling class of thieves," he said.

Ocelot raised an eyebrow, and watched as Vulich left the room, slamming the door behind himself on his way out. "That's a hell of a word to be throwing around over breakfast, don't you think?"

Kolya blushed faintly. "I don't know. Lieutenant Vulich is pretty smart. He always talks like that. Do you want some coffee, sir? I made it."

Ocelot looked Kolya over. The young man wore a Gurlukovich uniform. It had been a while since one of Sergei's boys had called him 'sir,' but Ocelot didn't sense any particular need to be cautious here. This boy's gaunt face and unkempt black hair made him seem like hardly a threat. "Sure, kid."

"Yes, sir." Kolya sprang toward the kitchen, catching his toe in the little gap where the carpet ended and the tile began, stumbling over his own feet. "Sorry!" he chirped as he righted himself against the edge of the counter.

Ocelot sighed. He felt tired.

Kolya trotted back to him, a mug of black coffee, softly breathing steam, in his left hand. "Is there anything else, sir?"

Ocelot looked down into his cup, just so he didn’t have to see Kolya’s too-earnest eyes. "What's your name?"

"Mine?" He straightened a little. "Nikolai Fyodorvich Berezovsky, sir."

"I've never heard of you."

The blushed, and said helpfully, "Everyone just calls me Kolya, sir. Except for Lieutenant Vulich…"

"Kolya, hm?" Ocelot said. "I'm…"

"You're Shalashaska!" Kolya blurted out. He ducked his head a little, abruptly. "I mean, aren't you?"

"I am."

Kolya slipped around so he was facing Ocelot again. "I never thought I'd meet you."

"Now you have." Ocelot sipped his coffee. It was pretty good, and that seemed a little odd to him; that a kid like this would make good coffee. "What do you think?"

"You're taller than I thought you'd be," Kolya grinned. "Like a bear."

"A what?" Ocelot raised an eyebrow. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at him with admiration. He wouldn't exactly say that he had missed it, but the lack had been conspicuous.

"I'm really glad you're here, sir," Kolya said. "You don't mind me saying that, do you?"

Ocelot wanted to ask him why the hell he would want to tell him something like that, but he only nodded slightly and said, "I'm not complaining."

"Good." Kolya smiled shyly. "There are some people who don't trust you very much. But I know you're still watching out for us."

"Like Vulich, you mean?"

Kolya straightened. "I wasn't talking about him exactly."

"It doesn't matter," Ocelot said.

"It doesn't?"

Ocelot glanced at Kolya, as though having forgotten for a moment that he was there. The young man had the face of a boy, except when he smiled, which he did frequently. His slightly crooked grin gave definition to a network of dark lines around his eyes and in the corners of his mouth. It aged him twenty years, gave him a look of weariness that was out of place with his sharp green eyes. Underneath his heavy uniform, he must have been thin to the point of emaciation. It showed in the sharp angles of his face, and in his bony, delicate hands.

"Are you really a soldier?" Ocelot asked.

"Me?" Kolya's eyes widened, the sharp points of his eyebrows flicking up toward his hairline. "To be honest,   
I never really got any good at handling a gun, actually."

Shyly, Kolya held up his right hand, displaying his missing fingers. His skin was covered with dark blotches, like bruises that never healed. "It gets real cold where I'm from. One time, the power went out for a couple days and…" Kolya shrugged. He stretched out one leg out slightly, pointing at Ocelot with a scuffed black boot. "I'm missing a couple of toes, too. Makes me kind of a klutz."

"I see," Ocelot said, as Kolya shoved his mutilated hand back into the pocket of his uniform. "So, what do you do?"

"I make coffee,” Kolya said. “And I cook. And I clean up around here a lot. Even though he won't put me on patrol, Lieutenant Vulich keeps me pretty busy."

" 'From each according to his ability'?" Ocelot said, and laughed quietly.

"Yeah," Kolya said with a faint laugh. "How'd you know that? Did he tell you, too?"

"Of course he did," Ocelot said. "Is that all you can do?" He was a little disappointed. He had expected to be able to use this young man who seemed to trust him so implicitly and who knew Vulich so well. But Ocelot could see already what had happened here. The Lieutenant had taken Kolya in out of pity and put him to work the only way he could.

He didn't want anything to do with Vulich's charity cases.

"Actually," Kolya said. "I can build things, too."

"Like barracks?"

"Not quite." A faint mischievous smile flickered over Kolya's lips. "More like bombs."

"Oh?" Ocelot nodded thoughtfully. Bombs tended to come in handy more often that one would think. "You look pretty young. Are you any good?"

"Sure." Kolya nodded. "Pretty good, I guess. Remember that tanker a few years back? I know you were there. I wired all the Semtex on that boat."

"That tanker that exploded?"

Kolya blushed. "I know what happened. But that wasn't because I messed up. I did my job perfect."

Ocelot nodded. "I know you did."

"R-really?" Kolya had been close to recovering from the last blush, but now his cheeks flooded with color again. "You really noticed?”

"I notice everything," Ocelot said. He finished the last of his coffee, and set the cup down on the edge of the table. As he turned to go, he set a hand over the revolver on his hip, drew it out and spun it over once thoughtfully. "I'll see you again, Kolya. I'm sure of it."

He holstered his gun again, and, as Kolya sputtered ungracefully for a response, turned to go.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one cultural note. The blue magazine in the flashback is an issue of _Novi Mir_ , a progressive literary journal published under Khrushchev. It contained stories and articles by many writers who were critical of government policies.

Groznyj Grad was full of children. Ocelot knew this was a suicide mission, and he didn't resent that. He didn't resent the ghosts that clung like scraps of cobweb to the rafters of his sub-conscious, tied to him like serfs were tied to the land. He didn't resent the sullen scientists and the secrets they kept from him. Didn't resent the newspaper that he hadn't even gotten a chance to read.

Christ, that was how John used to think. Always obsessed with the details.

All Ocelot did resent was being surrounded by all these goddamn kids. Their smooth, unlined faces; their clear eyes; their lean waists and steady hands and the decades they had ahead of them.

Vulich was the worst of the bunch. His burning contempt for authority was the most irritating kind of youthful arrogance. That wasn't to say, though, that Ocelot was looking forward to another conversation with Dr. Novikov. Even Kolya's guileless, implicit trust grated on him.

Blind faith was a luxury Ocelot had never allowed himself.

It was only for the Gurlukovich boy that Ocelot felt anything but deep disdain. He liked Innokenty's quiet obedience, and his sharp gaze that seemed to miss nothing. He had killed the boy's mother, and it was very likely that Innokenty knew this. Ocelot wasn't sure what he thought about that, but he knew he wasn't about to start feeling guilty now.

And so later that afternoon, when he returned to the subterranean cool of the underground laboratory, he had no trouble meeting the boy's clear blue gaze. Innokenty looked pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes, but he was unwavering and alert.

Ocelot felt awkward amidst all the humming machinery down here. He could hide that he was poor fit for office work, but it would never be a deception that ran as deep as it should have. He would never be able to adapt entirely; like the ancient aurochs of the Caucuses, wiped out by domestication and the encroachment of civilization.

If he lived another 75 years, he still wouldn't be as comfortable in this place as Novikov was.

The young doctor was currently bent over one of the lab's computer terminals, scowling as he jabbed at the keyboard. "Kesha," he said without looking up. "Tilt your head."

Innokenty, who was seated ramrod straight in a chair next to Novikov's computer, did as he had been told, cocking his head as though trying to listen to a far-off voice.

Novikov's deep frown faded. "That's more like it." He glanced up at Ocelot. "Damn wireless networks. Technology is more trouble than it's worth, don't you agree, Shalashaska?"

"If you say so," Ocelot muttered. He was in no mood to deal with Novikov right now. His hands ached dully and clumsily, and his head was starting to throb as well.

He was still angry that he had lost his chance to read the paper that morning. He had never put much faith in the media, but without that flimsy tether to the outside world, he felt as though he was trapped in time. Mired in the past while the years screamed by him with a sound like the distant lament of a train whistle.

Ocelot's eyes darkened.

Novikov noticed, raised a pale eyebrow, but said nothing. It was Innokenty who spoke up, "Is something wrong, sir?"

Ocelot glanced at the boy, startled momentarily by his clear steady voice. "I'm fine," he said. "I just want to get started."

"Of course," Novikov said, waving his hand dismissively. "We're nearly done. They're preparing the sensory deprivation chamber now." He glanced over his shoulder, back into one of the small offices lining the lab.

He excused himself, and then Ocelot was alone with the boy.

Innokenty stared up at him, but said nothing. Ocelot was the one to break the silence. "Are you all right?"

Innokenty's blue eyes widened. "Yes, sir."

Ocelot leaned back against the computer desk, folding his arms. He had told so many lies already, it shouldn't have felt as though Innokenty could see right through him. Just like he was a ghost…

"You took a nasty fall this morning."

"Yes," Innokenty replied. "I remember. Don't worry about me, sir. Dr. Novikov says that my symptoms will pass in time."

"Has he been working you too hard? That looked like clinical exhaustion to me."

"No," Innokenty said. "My psychiatric examinations have all come back clean." His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward a little, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"It's the radiation."

Ocelot was quiet for a long moment, struggling for something to say that wouldn't tip his hand. Wouldn't betray what he was only now beginning to realize: he didn't really know what was going on here.

"Ah, yes," Ocelot said at last. "That's right."

Innokenty smiled faintly. "Of course, I've had the nanomachines, but Dr. Novikov says that my body isn't fighting the infection like an adult's would."

Ocelot raised an eyebrow. "Does it frighten you?"

"I don't understand what you mean, sir."

"It's dangerous, isn't it? Do you know what radiation sickness does to a person?"

"Yes," Innokenty said. "At first, Dr. Novikov wouldn't tell me what I had, so I asked someone I trust."

"Who do you trust, Innokenty?"

A wan, prosaic smile fluttered across the boy's lips. "Matryona."

The way Innokenty said that made something cinch tight in the pit of Ocelot's stomach. He didn't dare not to take the boy's words seriously.

"Matryona?"

"She knows a lot. She told me she could see my medical file, and I shouldn't be afraid. It's not cancerous."

"The machine told you all this."

"She needs me. She won't let anything happen."

Ocelot shifted on his feet, his spurs clicking softly against the side of the desk. He didn't want to believe what Innokenty was saying. He was just a child, after all, and lonely; he had an overactive imagination. But the boy's voice was so serious and his gaze so steady that Ocelot knew it would be a mistake to not listen.

"Innokenty. What is that machine?"

Innokenty stared at him quietly for a moment, and then he broke into a smile. "This is a test, isn't it, sir?"

"Yes," Ocelot replied easily. "Just a test."

He glanced past Innokenty. Novikov was making his way back to them, cutting around the computer terminals. "Never mind, Innokenty. Forget it. You're doing a fine job here."

"What's this?" Novikov looked them over, setting a hand on his hip. "Kesha, I never thought I'd see you smile like that."

His eyes drifted to Ocelot. "Shalashaska, you must have a very capable hand indeed."

"Are you nearly ready?" Ocelot muttered.

Novikov chuckled softly. "Nearly. There's no need to be impatient."

Ocelot snorted, grabbing one of the desk chairs and pulling it out. He paused before he could sit down. A thick paperback book had been left on the chair; its pages were stained and dark with age, its cover creased and lined with faded white veins.

Ocelot picked the book up, turning it over in his hands. " _Brothers Karamazov_." He held the book out to Novikov. "A little beach reading, Doctor?"

"Actually," Novikov said, "that belongs to Kesha. I don't have any patience for fiction."

"Neither do I." Ocelot glanced at Innokenty; the boy was staring at the book in his hand desperately, as though he expected Ocelot to confiscate it.

"You like this sort of thing?" Ocelot slapped the book against his palm before handing it over to Innokenty.  
The boy snatched the book from his hand, pulling it to his chest. "Yes Sir. But I don't like it as much as Turgenev. Do you know who he is?"

Novikov folded his arms. "Careful, Shalashaska. If you get him started, we'll never be able to turn him off."

"It's all right." Ocelot liked that this line of conversation annoyed Novikov. Men like him couldn't stand being made to feel ignorant. "When I was his age, we weren't allowed to have books like these."

"Yes!" Innokenty's eyes lit up. "I read about that! Did you know anyone who went to prison, sir? In Siberia?"

"A few. No one I was close to."

Innokenty's eyes were big. "Were you scared?"

"Not particularly." But Ocelot couldn't remember anymore if that was really the case. "I probably should have been, though."

"I wouldn't have been scared." Innokenty shrugged. "It's really easy, just to do what people tell you. I'd miss the books, though."

"You could get books back then. You just had to know where to look."

"Sir," Innokenty said. "Do you know why they wouldn’t let people have them? The books, I mean."

"Haven't you figured it out yet? It's because they all said different things." Ocelot tapped the top of   
Innokenty's book. "Quite a bit different from Turgenev, isn't he?"

"I guess," Innokenty said. "I didn't really notice that before."

"And does that make one of them wrong?" Ocelot asked.

"Or just a liar," Novikov snorted.

Innokenty glanced between them, and his pale brows drew together. "No. Not exactly. At least, I don't think--"

Ocelot nodded. "You see? That's the problem."

"Thinking?"

Ocelot's eyes met Innokenty's. "That's right. No government really wants its people to think. Some are just more honest about it."

Novikov stepped forward and set a hand on Innokenty's shoulder. "That's quite enough of that. Shall we get started?"

"Yes, Doctor." Innokenty slid out of his chair. He still clasped the thick book protectively against his chest, but he hesitated before he turned to follow Novikov, and then thrust the novel in Ocelot's direction.

"Sir? Would you like to read it? I'd really like someone to talk about it with."

Innokenty chewed his lip nervously; the book, held at arm's length, looked very heavy in his hands. Ocelot stared down at the boy for a moment. He knew that a long story like this, one that spanned so many years, would only make him more keenly aware of all the decades he had behind him. But Innokenty had information he needed, and if this book would bring him close enough to the boy to get it out of him perhaps it had practical uses after all.

Ocelot took the novel, and slipped it into one of his coat pockets. He caught sight of Novikov's expression out of the corner of his eye; cold and reproachful, as though the doctor knew that a deal had just taken place.

"I’ll give it a try," Ocelot said.

"Thank you." It seemed as though Innokenty was trying very hard not to smile.

Novikov took the boy's shoulder, steering him toward the back of the laboratory. "Don't go anywhere, Shalashaska. I'll be back to deal with you."

Ocelot watched them go, and when they had vanished into the small office, out of sight, he reached down and touched the book in his pocket with two fingers. It wasn't heavy, not exactly, but it weighed enough that he had to take notice of it. It made his coat hang a little bit awkwardly. Something that had so little use shouldn't have been so adamant about making its presence known.

How easily, he thought, Novikov had dismissed writers as liars. But perhaps it wasn't untrue.

It must have been in people's very nature to lie. If it wasn't, then why did it come so effortlessly? He had only spoken to Innokenty for a few minutes, but he had lied to the boy calmly, out of habit.

He had told Innokenty that he hadn't known anyone who was sent to the Gulags. It wasn't true, and he wasn't sure why he had said it. He didn't know what he had been trying to protect. Back then, everyone knew someone who had vanished. A family member, a lover, a friend, a coworker… One day they were there, and the next they were gone. No one talked about it. The empty bunk or desk was occupied almost immediately, a warm body to fill the cold, aching emptiness.

He remembered them now, all the names he held as close as his secrets, that he hadn't been able to bring himself to say in front of Innokenty and Novikov. Beregovoi and Kirygin from the old Ocelot unit. Yuri Tabanov, one of his contacts at the Kremlin; Ocelot had spoken with him many times, but never seen his face. Comrade Pravda, that ruthless KGB agent who had first instructed Ocelot in the art of interrogation. Dr. Beria, who worked in the infirmary at Groznyj Grad. They had taken him, Ocelot learned later, because of some distant relation to a politician who had fallen out of favor.

Even Colonel Volgin – there was a name Ocelot hadn't thought of in years – had done his time at hard labor. He had never talked about it, of course, but he didn't have the savvy to keep it a secret, either.

***

Ocelot recalled very little of his youth with any clarity. Faces had changed almost daily, as men died, were promoted, or simply disappeared. In those days, the official explanation was that they had "gone abroad".

It must have been very nice abroad, Ocelot used to think. No one ever seemed to want to come home.

Back then, the only constant companions had been the kick of a gun in his hands, and the hollow, dry burn in his chest after a long workout. Most men remembered their first kiss. Ocelot remembered the first time he had shattered a row of empty vodka bottles at 200 paces.

But he did recall very clearly one young artillery sergeant with a scarred face and a faded tattoo of a bear above his left wrist.

Ruska Doronin had hollow eyes, haunted by twelve years spent first in the Moscow lubyanka, then the Gulags of Siberia, then in exile in the deserts of the Southern provinces. But when he smiled, it was bright and easy and boyish, as though there was a part of him that hadn't aged a day past eighteen. Something inside him had crystallized and been preserved on that warm summer night more than a decade ago when he had been arrested for the first time; tucked away in storage, waiting for the day he was released.

There were whispers in the ranks that the sergeant had survived prison by working as an informant. A rat. Ocelot wanted to ask if there was any truth in those rumors, but he could never seem to find the right moment.

Ocelot was the youngest person on the base in those days, and he sometimes got the feeling that Doronin was more comfortable with him than with the other men. Sometimes, in the evenings, Doronin sought him out, set a hand atop Ocelot's head and gave his cropped hair an affectionate ruffle. Doronin gossiped like a schoolgirl, in the same hushed and excited tones, and most nights he was ready with a joke or an anecdote he had overheard.

Most of their conversations were gone now; Ocelot remembered them only in fragments. But they had spoken once in the library of the old Groznyj Grad. Construction of that wing had finished only recently, and the air still smelled of wood and paint.

Ocelot was hunched over one of the little tables, sliding a wire brush into the barrel of his handgun to clean the weapon. He was so intent that he didn't see Doronin approach, but he did distantly register the sounds of his footfalls, so he wasn't surprised when the sergeant spoke.

"Adamska." A little smile quirked Doronin's lips. People had smiled very easily back then, it seemed. Or maybe Ocelot had just been quicker to notice.

Ocelot looked up. Under the fluorescent lights, the scar that dripped from the corner of Doronin's left eye was a hard, pale punctuation mark. A blue magazine with a creased and folded cover jutted out of the pocket of his uniform coat. Ocelot had seen copies of that magazine before – left unattended in the dining hall, making the rounds in the barracks before the lights were turned out – but he hadn't paid much attention to them.

"Good evening, Sergeant," Ocelot said, setting his gun aside. "What's on your mind?"

Doronin sat on the table, sliding back so his feet hung a few centimeters off the ground, swinging freely. "I've been hearing your name around, Adamska."

"Only good things, I hope." Ocelot didn't doubt that, but it was always nice to have confirmation.

"Without a doubt." Doronin winked, reaching up to tap his shoulder where silver stars gleamed against his dark-colored uniform. "They're going to promote you soon enough."

"They said that to you?"

"Not _to_ me exactly."

"You were eavesdropping."

"That's an ugly word, Adamska Ivanovich. It has nasty connotations, you know." Doronin tried to look stern, a valiant effort, but one that lasted only a moment before he burst into a grin again. "If they didn't want me to know, then they should have said it more quietly."

Ocelot nodded solemnly. "You're right, Sergeant."

Ocelot knew that Doronin had never had any problems exaggerating for the sake of a good story before, but this time he was certain he believed the sergeant's words. He had never doubted that there was a set of silver stars in his future. Even when he had been a child – so young that his name couldn't even appear on any official military rosters – he had known that one day he would be an officer. Ocelot awaited that day eagerly. He had no desire for social status, and the thought of becoming a politician filled him with dread; even the knowledge that one day he would lead the men at this base as he saw fit bored him. For Ocelot, the stars were only a destination, a single landmark on a much longer journey.

His expression must have changed, because Doronin leaned over him, setting a friendly hand on his shoulder. "You're not as excited as I thought you'd be."

Ocelot shook his head. "It's not that…"

"I understand," Doronin said. "You want to be a boy forever, Adamska. Don't pretend it isn't true."  
Ocelot lowered his eyes, hiding his expression behind long lashes. "Now you're just making things up."

"Not at all!" Doronin said brightly. "I was your age once. That was the summer I was on the run, living under an assumed name…"

"On the run?" Ocelot looked up abruptly. "From who?”

"Shh!" Doronin lifted a finger to his lips. "I'm trying to tell a story! Don't interrupt."

"Sorry, sir."

Doronin went on. "I was getting pretty good at living like that. I had learned to forge ration coupons and go under a fake passport. But do you know what did me in, Adamska?"

"What?"

"I missed my mom. I had to go home and see her, just one more time. And as soon as I walked into that house, they grabbed me."

Ocelot was quiet for a moment, waiting for Doronin to go on. "And then what happened?"

"What do you mean? That's what happened. Are you listening to anything I'm saying, Adamska?"

"Of course, sir." Ocelot shook his head. "But there's a big difference between us. I don't have a mother to go home to."

"You don't sound very upset about it."

"Why should I be?" Ocelot said. "I never knew her. I don't know what I'm missing, because there was never anything to miss."

Doronin sighed, hopping off the edge of the table and onto his feet. "Oh, Adamska, I almost forgot. I wanted you to have this." He pulled the blue magazine out of his coat pocket, tossing it on Ocelot's lap.

He picked it up, thumbing through the yellowed pages, covered with spidery black type. "What's this?"

"Proof we've come a long way."

Ocelot pursed his lips."It looks boring."

"Don't you understand how important it is? People being allowed to say what they think without being afraid?"

Ocelot looked up at him, his eyebrows drawing together into a kind of frown. "I always say what I think, Sergeant. And I'm not scared. What's so special about that?"

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the blue magazine back to Doronin, and without a word, reached over to pull gun he had been cleaning back to him. After a moment, Doronin turned on his heel and left.


	11. Chapter 11

There were no windows to the outside in the hallway above the underground lab, but when Ocelot emerged from it sometime later, he could tell that night had already fallen. That meant he had spent at least four hours down there, pouring over old combat data.

Text files, mostly. Hard math and physics that knocked the soul right out of the battles they pertained to. To Ocelot, it was like being a Biblical Creationist forced to scour endless texts about the Theory of Evolution. Novikov had wanted him to examine the accounts and highlight any inefficiency; anywhere technical improvements could be made. Ocelot had surprised them both by having some skill at it. He'd always had an eye for the hard sciences, just not much use for them in his work.

There was a damp chill in the air, and Ocelot knew without looking that, if there wasn't already a fine dusting of snow on the ground, there would be by morning. Clouds had moved in. There would be no moon tonight.

By morning, Ocelot knew, the chill would have settled into his joints. Two aspirin and a swallow of vodka before he slept would take the edge off, though. It would be enough to get him through, because it had to be.

These days, he couldn't imagine living like that again. Maybe it meant he had gotten soft. Or maybe he had fought hard for years, and long since earned himself some rest.

Ocelot crested the stairs to the second floor. As he turned down the hallway, the row of lights overhead flickered. For a split second, they sputtered out, and the very air seemed to sag without the humming electricity to hold it up.

Then, inside the walls, the electrical wires sputtered and the lights flicked back on.

Ocelot made note, but he didn't hesitate before starting down the corridor toward his quarters. He drew his coat more tightly around himself; the hallway was unusually chilly.

Inside his rooms, it was dark, the windows heavily shuttered against the floodlights in the yard. Ocelot left the door to the hallway standing open so a wedge of florescent light slashed across the floor, illuminating his way. He ran his gloved fingers along the wall, feeling for the light switch. He took a step inside. Another, and he passed out of the light that cut across the floor and into the shadows.

Air gusted against his back as something brushed abruptly past his shoulder blades. Fast enough to lift the hair away from the back of his neck. The light from the hall was abruptly cut off.

The sound the door made as it banged shut was sharp as the report of a gun.

And then there, in the darkness, Ocelot froze. One hand still pressed to the wall, the other resting over the revolver at his hip. He didn't remember reaching for it, but the cold metal beneath his fingers comforted him, reminding him to breathe again. And when he did, he could see the white cloud of his breath in the air before him.

Something cold brushed his cheek. He wanted to pull away, but he didn't.

"Go away," Ocelot hissed.

But an icy weight settled against his back, a faint companionable pressure that would have almost been comfortable if the circumstances were different.

"Adamska?"

The voice didn't come from behind him, not exactly. It was everywhere at once. In the air like radio waves.

"Adamska, you were gone a long time…"

A frozen sigh spilled over Ocelot's temple, ruffling a few wisps of loose white hair. He shuddered.

The weight against his back shifted. There was a certain way of resting against him that Ivan had always had. Ivan, yes, who had been dead for half a century, but was here with him now. There was no doubt about it.  
There was a certain way he'd had of touching him. One that had made Ocelot feel stronger, steadier. Like he was needed.

Sometimes, he felt almost hungry for those days. But he never knew why.

"Vanya," he said, barely above a whisper. "Stop it. You're dead. Go away."

This didn't surprise Ocelot anymore. Over the years, he had simply come to accept it. He had killed so many people already; he couldn't blame them for wanting revenge.

"I can't leave. I have a mission. You and I, Adamska, we have the mission to think of."

Ocelot could feel his pulse throbbing in the back of his throat. This remembrance, this afterimage; this atomic shadow burned onto the wall of his memory… Ocelot didn't think it could be reasoned with, but he was compelled to try. This was not, after all, some nameless soldier who had fallen before his gun. This was not his enemy, nor an obstacle to be removed. This was not something that would disappear if he closed his eyes and counted to ten.

This was a man who had loved him, once.

"Ivan, listen to me. There is no mission. It's over. Volgin is dead. You can go."

There was a long pause. At any moment, Ocelot thought, the chill would vanish from the air. He would be alone. But it did not, and the voice came again at last.

"Ivan? What happened to 'Vanya'?"

"You aren't listening to me," Ocelot whispered.

"I want to always be Vanya to you…"

"You’ve got a lot of nerve for a dead man, Raikov." Ocelot started to turn, but the icy limbs around his shoulders tightened, and something cold clenched his heart.

"Why are you angry?"

When Ocelot tried to lift his arm, it was like moving through deep, frigid water. “Let me go.”

"Don't turn around." The voice was a soft, plaintive whisper. "I want to help you."

But Ocelot was already losing his patience. He dug in his heels, spinning sharply around. "I don't need anything…" he started to say, but he never got a chance to finish.

The pain was so sharp and sudden that at first Ocelot’s mind refused to register what his body was feeling.   
His knees unhinged, and Ocelot slumped against the wall to keep his balance. It took him a moment to pinpoint the source of his agony: It was his right arm, the scarred place where two different skins joined, the bone and tissue that were not his own. They were consumed as if by invisible fire. He racing up and up, to his heart and to his mind; searching, always, for the cracks in his foundation.

Ocelot closed his eyes. His left hand hovered over the opposite wrist. He wanted to clutch the arm to his chest, but he didn't dare, as though the infection could be spread by touch alone. His lips parted around a name, but not the one he had expected.

"Vanya?"

But he knew it was no good. He was alone.

Eventually, the pain faded, leaving him pale and weak in the knees. Ocelot breathed a slow sigh of relief, turning so his back was against the wall as he caught his breath in long, dry gasps. His long hair, damp with sweat, was loose around his shoulders.

Tentatively, he touched the back of his right hand with two fingertips. He knew, probably better than most people, that pain was purely subjective. And yet, he also knew he hadn't felt an attack so strong – so determined – since before they had given him the neural enhancements.

Ocelot closed his left hand vengefully over his right wrist, hard enough to leave bruises. But the skin on   
his right arm never bruised.

"Nice try," Ocelot said under his breath.

He slammed his palm back against the wall, fumbling it across the paneling until he found the light switch. The overhead bulb flicked on, and Ocelot reeled away from the wall.

He steadied himself on the edge of the bed and sat down hard on the mattress. He felt weak, drained physically and mentally, as though after a long fight. He didn’t mean to sleep so soon, but he sank wearily against the wall, and his eyes fluttered closed.

And if he dreamed, he didn't remember it when he woke up.


	12. Chapter 12

It was his last cigarette and he had practically wasted it.

He had let it burn low in his gloved hand, all but forgotten. Cigarettes weren't impossible to come by here at Groznyj Grad – not like they had been a few years ago – but procuring them could sometimes be a lot of trouble. He'd have to take the Ocelot Unit down into the jungle to find something he could barter. They’d be glad for the excursion, but Ocelot was young and proud, and scavenging was distasteful to him. He didn't like to come by anything second hand.

Ocelot lifted the shrinking cigarette to his lips, breathing in deeply. It had smoldered so low that he felt the heat on his lips. Scowling, he dropped what was left to the tarmac, grinding it out beneath his boot.

The mornings were colder these days, and the sun rose later and later. Ocelot no longer went to the compound's western edge in the hour before reveille, preferring now the eastern yard. There was a stretch of fence that pressed up against a sheer cliff, overlooking a drop into the green valley below. From there, he could watch the sun come up.

Ocelot thought no silly sentimental thoughts when he watched the daybreak; he had never had an eye for natural beauty. But the nights at Groznyj Grad were cold and bleak, and he had come to anticipate the way everything warmed with the first touch of the sun.

Though he had never made a secret of it, he doubted anyone knew he came out here in the mornings. No one ever joined him.

And so when he heard the soft tap of boots on the damp pavement behind him, Ocelot was curious, but didn't turn around. As the steps drew closer, he realized he recognized them, and his shoulders tensed. His expression wavered momentarily between a smile and a scowl, then seemed to give up entirely and relaxed again.

A moment later, when Raikov spoke, Ocelot could hear the quiet humor in his voice.

"No, not under the vault of alien skies, and not under the shelter of alien wings. I was with my people there…"

"There, where my people unfortunately were," Ocelot finished for him.

Raikov laughed, delighted. He reached out, slipping his arm into the crook of Ocelot's elbow. His face was turned away, but Ocelot could imagine well enough what his expression looked like. "You're not such an uncultured barbarian after all, Adamska. I'm surprised."

"I didn't know you held such a low opinion of me, Major. Besides, everyone knows that poem these days."  
Raikov pushed up against his side, and Ocelot allowed it for the moment. Only because it was cold, and the crush of Raikov's body against his own warmed his chilly fingers. "Not at all. Though I suspect that Sergeant Doronin has gotten to you before me."

"Sergeant Doronin doesn't bother with me anymore," Ocelot replied. "Don't blame him because everyone knows your little poem."

"It's such a nice poem, though," Raikov pouted. "We rose as if for an early service," he recited easily, almost musically. "Trudged through the savaged capital and met there, more lifeless than the dead…"

Ocelot glanced over at him. Raikov's head was turned away; Ocelot couldn't see his face, only a halo of white-gold hair, made radiant by the early morning sunlight. There was something vulnerable about him, Ocelot thought. He had never noticed it before, but it seemed obvious to him now. It was as though Raikov had come to him unadorned and without armor, to see what Ocelot would make of it.

Ocelot looked away, out over the valley. "You really like that kind of stuff? I can't stand the way everyone's hanging on some old woman's words, that's all."

"I thought you'd say something like that."

"All she does is complain."

Raikov shrugged; Ocelot felt it against his ribs. "But she has faith."

Ocelot scowled, extracting his arm from Raikov's grip. He had seen the Major a few times since Raikov had cornered him in the deserted barracks, but Raikov had retreated from contact considerably. These days, he was more aloof and professional than coy and tempting. He came only to deliver scraps of information he had gathered from Volgin, conversations he had overheard.

He no longer demanded to be kissed.

"What do you want?" Ocelot said, smoothing the wrinkles out of his sleeve where Raikov had grasped him.

"Adam…" Raikov's shoulders were bent, his hands limp at his sides like dead birds. He seemed brittle in a way that Ocelot had never seen before. It only showed when they were close like this. He had never thought of Raikov as particularly strong, but this glimpse of weakness startled him all the same.

"I wanted to see you," Raikov said quietly. "That's all."

Ocelot frowned, and he reached out. He cupped Raikov's jaw in a gloved hand, tilting his face up. Raikov resisted, only for a moment, and then allowed himself to be turned.

There was a deep bruise on his cheek, the sweep of a black bird's wing angling down towards the corner of his full mouth. His lower lip was swollen, but if there had been any blood Raikov had washed it away. His eyes were wary, his expression guarded, as Ocelot looked him over.

"Is that all?" Ocelot said at last. His thumb slid along the underside of the bruise, tracing its shape. "It's nothing."

Raikov's shoulders sagged, all the tension running out of them and leaving him looking weak and tired. "No.   
That's not all." He reached out, and his hand came to rest on Ocelot's chest.

"Adamska, you really don't think much of me, do you?"

Ocelot scowled. His eyes strayed to the hand on his chest, but he let it stay. "I didn't say that."

"Because you know you don't have to."

"Since when do you care what I think?" Ocelot asked quietly.

Raikov shook his head. "It's more complicated than that. It's part of my training, you know. To make sure… everyone gets what they think they want."

"I don't want anything from you," Ocelot said.

Raikov sighed, stepping forward to rest his weight against Ocelot's chest. He stiffened at the contact, but didn't push Raikov away. "I wish sometimes,” Raikov said, “that I could be more like you."

His hands moved to rest on Ocelot's hips, not pulling him closer, but holding him tight all the same. He was bowed over, head resting wearily on Ocelot's shoulder so he could feel soft blond hair brushing the point of his chin.

"I'm not very brave," Raikov said. "I was just lucky, I guess. All I have is what I was born with." He laughed, weakly. "You know, neither of my parents are really that good looking…"

Ocelot was quiet a moment, trying to figure out what Raikov was trying to tell him. But maybe it was something Raikov didn’t even want him to understand. At some point while the Major spoke, Ocelot had slid an arm around his waist, steadying him. It hadn't seemed right not to. When he took a deep breath, he felt his body flex against Raikov's, felt the way they fit against each other.

"Major," he said quietly. "Pull yourself together."

Raikov made a little sound, low in his throat, and pulled back; stepping away so Ocelot's arm fell from his waist. "Yes…" he murmured.

Raikov reached up, dabbing at the corner of his eye with his sleeve.

"You're right," he said, and smiled flimsily. "Volgin's in a bad mood. That's all. It'll blow over soon."

"I thought you could handle Volgin."

"I can. Don't worry."

"I'm not worrying. You're just in a very convenient position, that's all. I don't want to lose that."

Some strange emotion flickered briefly behind Raikov's eyes, threatening to surface. He blinked it back. "I know. And you won't. I'll be there as long as you need me."

"I'm counting on it," Ocelot said.

Raikov breathed a sigh. He turned away, and lifted a hand to point out over the valley. "Look. The sun's up. I hope I didn't keep you too long."

"Not really."

"Good." When Raikov turned back, there was a tiny smile playing about his lips. "Is there anything you need,   
Adamska?"

He was about to shake his head, but then he stopped. "Some cigarettes, if you can get them."  
Raikov nodded briskly. "Let me see what I can do. I'll be in touch."

Ocelot said nothing as the Major turned on his heels and headed back toward the compound, the sun throwing a long, reckless shadow over the pavement in front of him.


	13. Chapter 13

"Remind me, Ingenue. How old are you?"

"I told you not to call me that."

"Goodness, I can’t believe I forgot again.” There was a specter of dry laughter in Vamp's voice. "I was only wondering how you got to be your age without ever learning to tie a tie."

He set his hands gently on Raiden's shoulder blades. "Look over here."

"What?" Raiden frowned. In the hazy glass of the bathroom mirror, the expression was a dim shadow stretching across his face. He dropped the ends of his tie, and they flopped limply against his chest. "Would you knock it off? I'm trying to get dressed."

"I said, come here." Vamp's hands slid up, cupping his shoulders, turning him gently so they faced each other. His hands, smooth and hard a ivory, brushed the sides of Raiden's neck, the sensitive hollows beneath his jaw.

He swallowed hard, throat muscles flexing to fit the curves between Vamp's thumbs and forefingers. "What…?" he said, his voice a dry rasp.

Vamp’s hands trailed down his chest, catching the two tails of his tie, holding them up for Raiden to see.

"Take this end," Vamp said. "Pull it out so it's longer than the other. Loop it around like this, thread it through there, and tighten it."

He pulled the knot up to the hollow of Raiden's throat, knuckles nudging against the underside of his chin.

Four days now; that was how long it had taken the bruises from their fight in the alley to fade. But for a moment, Raiden was certain that the memory of Vamp's rough hands would linger on his skin even longer than that.

"Did you follow that?" Vamp asked.

Raiden shook his head; irritated, though not entirely with Vamp. "You did it too fast."

Vamp drew his hands away, and nudged Raiden aside so he could look in the bathroom mirror. "You ought to learn, you know. I won't always be here to help you."

"I'm sure I'll mange somehow," Raiden muttered, and as he watched, Vamp's lips moved. Not quite into a smile.

Though Raiden hated to admit it, Vamp cleaned up pretty well. A black tie and a stiff white dress shirt took some of the edge off his ferocity. Sheathed it, like a knife. But Vamp still wore his hair down, loose around his shoulders, as though he was afraid of forgetting, even for a moment, what his true nature was. He carried himself perpetually on the balls of his feet, like a cocky young dancer or an aging mercenary. Even dressed like this - respectably - there was a suggestion of violence about him, an insinuation that made strangers on the street step wide to move out of his way.

Vamp lifted his gaze, catching the reflection of Raiden's eyes in the mirror. "Did you lose something in me, Ingenue? You've been staring for some time."

"I was just wondering if you're going to preen all night." Raiden could feel himself blushing, beneath Vamp's steady stare, and he turned away, inspecting the patterns in the tile on the far shower wall. "I don't see why we have to get all dressed up like this."

"We are making a business deal, are we not? We ought to look the part."

"Yeah, I guess," Raiden muttered.

Vamp straightened his tie, then clasped Raiden briefly on the shoulder. "Let's go."

They took the elevator to the lobby. It occurred to Raiden that they had a long journey ahead of them, and nothing to look forward to at its end but more fighting, more blood. The kind of life Raiden had twice before thought he was leaving behind forever. He found, though, that he didn’t mind going back as much as he thought he would. Three years of peace had only proven to him what he had suspected all along: War was the only thing he would always be good at. The battlefield was the one place he would never be a burden.

But Raiden had always fought alone, solitary as a coyote or a serpent. Even in Liberia, he had never thought of the other boys as his comrades. The day's battle was always personal to him, always the only thing he had to call his own.

"Something on your mind?"

Vamp's voice was smooth and unobtrusive.

"No. Not really."

But they both knew it was a lie.

He followed Vamp off the elevator, watching the shift and sway of his suit coat, and the sway of the lean muscular body beneath. As they passed through glass doors into the casino on the bottom floor of the hotel, Raiden was confronted momentarily by their distorted reflection.

It disappeared as the door closed, and he forgot it as he hurried to catch up with Vamp.

He seemed distracted, and Raiden set a hand on his elbow. "Well?"

Vamp turned his arm, hooking it in Raiden's and drawing him close. "What did I tell you about staying quiet?"

He tugged at his trapped limb, but Vamp had no intention of relinquishing his hold. "Hey, knock it off. Someone might see."

"What are you afraid of?"

"Afraid?" Raiden shook his head. "I'm not scared. I just--"

" _Adrian_!"

He felt Vamp stiffen slightly beside him, and he glanced up in time to see him fit a smile to his lips before he turned. Raiden tried to do the same, but his own smile was harder in coming, and it felt as artificial as a plaster mask.

A woman cut across the lobby toward them, a nearly empty martini glass, marked around the edges with lipstick stains, held above her head. As she approached, they lost sight of her in the crowd for a moment, but that glass remained aloft, bobbing toward them like a buoy.

"Friend of yours?" Raiden asked quietly, and was rewarded with an elbow to the ribs.

The crowd parted, and spat the woman out. She stumbled over her tall blood red stiletto heels, squeaked, but righted herself in a flurry of red and white and neatly coiled peroxide blonde. She lifted her martini glass to her lips. The rim was so wide her face disappeared behind it, and for a moment she was like a strange liquor advertisement in a slick magazine: A frosted, pink stained glass with a pile of white blond curls and tight curves wrapped up in a red silk halter dress, as tight as cellophane over a dish of chilled caviar.

Raiden glanced up at Vamp questioningly, but he wasn't looking back.

The woman lowered her glass and licked her pink lips. She shuffled her drink and her small red clutch purse into one hand, offering the other.

"You're Adrian, right? My name's Leta."

Vamp's tiny confident smile didn't waver. He took her hand, drawing it to his lips for a breathy kiss. "A fitting name," he purred. "Tell me, is it Leta like the swan? Or like the goddess?"

"Huh?" She tapped her temple with one crimson nail. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing."

Vamp sounded strained, almost irritated, and that gave Raiden a warm, smug feeling. As though justice had been served.

Vamp tipped his head slightly to the side. "Miss Leta, this is Jack. My associate."

The hesitation was slight, but Raiden noticed it: a little bump that broke the smoothness of Vamp's words.

Leta's eyes combed over him. "Associate? Does that mean…?

"You may say whatever is necessary, my swan. Don't worry about him,"

Leta giggled. "That wasn't _exactly_ what I was asking."

When Vamp didn't say anything, she shook her head.

"Matthias sent me," she went on. "You know Matthias, don't you, Adrian?" She didn't so much wink conspiratorially as allow one eyelid to be dragged down under the weight of all the paint she had layered on it.

"I am familiar with the name," Vamp said.

"He had some business to conduct with you tonight."

Vamp's eyes narrowed just slightly, and he shifted his grip on Raiden's arm. "I seem to recall something of the sort. If you don't mind me asking, why has he been detained?"

"He's recuperating," Leta said. "He had a little trouble at the border this past weekend."

She lifted her glass, tilting her head back and gulping the rest of her drink down.

"He got his clumsy ass shot."

Raiden's head jerked up. "What?"

Vamp gave his arm a little squeeze. "That is a shame," he said smoothly. "I trust it wasn't anything serious?"

Leta tossed her curls. "I told you already, it was just his ass."

Raiden glanced over, just in time to see Vamp's expression contort most unusually. "You have my most sincere condolences."

She shrugged. "He'll live, if I don't choke him first. You boys don't have anything to worry about. I'm going to take care of everything you need."

Vamp was quiet for a moment, composing himself heroically. "I don't doubt your abilities, but you have to understand how important it is that this goes off smoothly."

Leta waved her hand. "You boys are all the same. You think that just because I'm gorgeous I couldn't possibly be smart, don't you?"

"The thought never crossed my mind."

She jabbed a sharp nail into the center of his chest. "There's no need to worry. I've seen him do this plenty of times."

"What a relief."

"Besides, who would you rather have take care of you? Sweet little Leta?" Abruptly, her expression soured. "Or a clown who just got half his ass blown off by undercover Interpol agents?"

Raiden felt Vamp's ribs rise and fall with a silent sigh. "I think the answer to that is obvious."

"Of course it is," Leta chirped, she lifted a finger, beckoning. "Come this way. I have a private booth."  
Raiden held back a little, giving Vamp's arm a slight tug as she turned to go. "What the hell are you doing?" he whispered.

Vamp raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play innocent, Adrian. She's a complete airhead!"

"It’s not like we're asking her to design a particle accelerator for us. It's a simple business transaction."  
Leta glanced back. "My ears are burning, boys."

Vamp sighed, and reached out, casually snagging the arm of a passing waitress. "Another drink for the lovely lady, if you please."

Raiden rolled his eyes. Sometimes he wondered what Vamp saw when he looked in the mirror; if there was a reflection at all.

Leta led them to the back of the casino where a booth with a thick blue curtain that could be drawn around it waited for them. There was a pink martini already on the table, and Leta threw herself onto it as if it was a grenade. She took a long drink, smearing the rim of the glass with lipstick, then reached out and pulled the curtain around them.

"Well, boys. What can I do for you?"

Vamp reached into his coat and drew out a sheet of pale blue hotel stationary, folded in half with a neat crease. He slid it across the table to her. "We need this."

Leta unfolded the paper, pursing her lips thin as she read it over. "This is some heavy artillery. What are you naughty boys planning?"

"Just a little hunting."

Leta snorted. "Just like a man, always getting into mischief."

"Perhaps," Vamp said. "We also need transportation. Something that isn't going to attract too much attention. But reliable. It has to get us into Russia."

"Something Japanese, maybe?"

"That would be ideal."

"Well, too bad." Leta shook her head. "Matthias only buys American. I'll make sure to pick out something nice for you, though."

Vamp sighed wearily. "Thank you, my swan."

She glanced over the list again. "This shouldn't be a problem. I'll leave it all in the car. It'll be waiting for you tomorrow morning."

"Where?"

"Northeast corner of the building. The keys will be in the ignition. And now there's just one teensy little matter left to take care of..."

"Your payment?" Vamp asked.

"You're handsome _and_ smart. Matthias says that the two of you already agreed on a price."

Vamp reached into his coat again, pulled out another folded sheet of paper. "Here are the numbers to a foreign account. You can transfer it from there."

"Oh, good." Leta folded the paper over again, and tucked it into the bodice of her dress.

"This was so much easier than I thought it would be," she giggled. "Maybe I should start my own business. What do you think, Adrian?"

"I would hate to see those delicate hands roughened by too much hard labor," Vamp muttered.

"I thought you'd say something like that."

Raiden's eyes flicked between them, and then he leaned over, resting his weight on Vamp's shoulder. "Was that it? That was easy."

Vamp smiled thinly. "That was it. A good evening to you, my swan…"

He reached for the edge of the blue curtain, but Leta held up a finger. "There is just one more thing, boys."

"It's not very nice of you to change the rules like that." Vamp's expression had tensed, pulled tight like a wire.

"Oh, poor baby." Leta pursed her lips. "I just want a teeny little favor. After all, I came all the way out here to chat with you two."

"Adrian." Raiden set a hand on Vamp's shoulder. "Come on. We're finished, right?"

Vamp shook his head. "It's all right, Ingenue. We are gentlemen. We can do the lady a favor. What would you like, my swan?"

"There's just one thing that I've been thinking about all night…"

"Don't be timid," Vamp said wearily.

Leta nodded. "And I think what I really want…" She tapped two enameled fingernails together with a sharp click, and nodded solemnly. "Is for you to kiss your boyfriend."

Raiden sputtered gracelessly. "What?"

Vamp shook his head. "You seem to be mistaken. We're not…"

"I'm not his _boyfriend_!"

Leta bubbled laughter. "Oh, you two are so adorable. Are you shy?"

"Yes!" Raiden cried.

"Not at all," said Vamp.

The woman planted her elbows on the table, leaning forward so her chin rested on her hands. "You boys are teases. I'm waiting."

"I'm afraid I must decline…"

Leta's lips twisted into a perfect red bud of irritation. "Might I remind you boys, I haven't picked out a vehicle for you yet. I hope I can find one that's up to your exacting standards, but I might have a little trouble with that if you don't give me proper motivation."

Heat flooded Raiden's face. He could feel it rush into his cheeks all at once, as if he had been standing too close to a bomb at the moment of detonation. Because he hadn't said anything when Vamp had slammed back into his life like a bullet, the smell of leather and cordite and $180 aftershave clinging to his hair and clothes. He hadn't said anything when Vamp had demanded they leave the country; it was as if he had drawn back a boot and kicked sand in the face of the life Raiden had spent three years trying to build. His normal life; his tidy little boring life. He had always known it was a lie, but that didn't mean he had been ready to have it come to an end.

He hadn't said anything when Vamp had smiled at him, his voice as viscous and smooth as the ouzo they had drunk earlier. When he had taken Raiden's arm, draped him over himself like a fashionable accessory and then told him to keep quiet. He had known it wasn't intentional; Vamp hadn't even been aware he was doing it. And so Raiden hadn't made a big deal about it at the time.

But that didn't mean he had to like it.

He shook his head sharply, bracing both hands on the edge of the table as if to root himself to the spot. "Is that supposed to be a threat? Look, we came all the way here and we paid you what you asked and when I say he's not my boyfriend, then I mean--"

A hand closed around the bottom of his jaw. A grip so gentle it hurt; skin so smooth it felt rough.  
Raiden fell abruptly silent as his face was tilted upward. It was as though all his words had blown away, out of reach.

He caught only a glimpse of movement, too quick for the human eye to follow, like a black shadow passing over white snow. And then Vamp's mouth closed over his.

Raiden held his breath, sucked his tongue into the back of his throat, distantly afraid that he would smell blood on Vamp's skin, taste its coppery sweetness in his mouth. But as Vamp parted Raiden's lips gently, he realized he could smell only faint musky shampoo, taste only flesh, and maybe a hint of cinnamon chewing gum.

When he pulled away, Raiden's cheeks were still hot, but for an entirely different reason.

Leta was applauding. She paused to take a gulp of her martini, and then whistled. "Fabulous! You boys are spectacular. I wish I'd taken a picture. I could have given it to Matthias, show him what he misses when he's stuck in bed."

Vamp smiled, his composure unwavering. "Let's keep it our little secret, my swan. It's more mysterious that way."

***

As soon as the door to their room swung closed behind him, his hand was at his tie, tugging at the knot. It hadn't been uncomfortable at first, but as the night wore on, it had begun to itch terribly, and the knot had begun to press into the hollow of his throat, as distinct as a tumor.

He managed to slide the knot to the bottom of his collar, but then it cinched tight, sticking in place. Raiden scowled.

"Adrian?"

He turned, the two ends of his tie already hanging loose down his chest. They hadn't spoken in the lobby, in the elevator or the hallway, but now Vamp came forward, and his hands glided gently along the bottom of Raiden's jaw.

"What have you done?" he murmured. His voice was the low, warm rumble of buried machinery.

Clever hands darted over the knot, loosening it. He flicked his wrist, looping Raiden's tie around his palm; slowly, he began to draw away. Silk slid wetly over the back of Raiden's neck, and he felt a little tightening at the base of his skull.

"Adrian." He reached up, stilling Vamp's hand. "How did you do that?"

Vamp took the other tail of Raiden's tie, pulling him a step closer. "It's simple. If you had been watching when I tied it…"

Raiden rolled his eyes. "Not the tie. Forget about the stupid tie for a second."

"What is it?"

"How can you be so charming? I watched you tonight. It was like it was automatic; you could turn it on like a switch."

Vamp laughed softly. "You don't go into battle unarmed, do you? It's all about choosing the right weapon."

"Is that all it is? A weapon?"

Raiden suddenly wished he had taken a moment to turn on the light when he came in. Because there was only the moon, flooding in through the bay windows, and in the near-darkness, he couldn't make out Vamp's expression when he said, "That's all it is."

Raiden shifted his grip, settling his hand over Vamp's wrist, ready to push him away at a moment's notice. Or pull him closer.

"Is that all you are?"

Vamp didn't reply at first, and it took Raiden a moment to realize that had been the wrong thing to say. He shook his head. "Sorry. That was stupid of me."

"Was it?" Vamp tightened his grip, tugging the edge of Raiden's tie. It came loose, the hiss of fabric against fabric. He turned away, wadding the tie up and tossing it toward their luggage.

"Adrian…"

"Don't worry about it," Vamp said. "We got what we came for."

"Yeah," Raiden muttered. "Everything we came for."


	14. Chapter 14

During the night, it began to snow.

Ocelot slept deeply and awoke just after dawn. He had spent the night propped up against the wall, fully dressed in boots and gunbelts. His shoulders were stiff and the revolver on his hip had cut an awkward bruise into his skin. But at least it distracted him from the gnawing in his hands; the thousand microscopic sets of teeth nibbling constantly, chipping away bone and cartilage, wearing tendons down to brittle wires.

He took two aspirin, swallowed them dry. He had never permitted himself anything stronger than that for his pain.

When he had been young, Ocelot remembered it had been easy to be hurt. He had been proud of his injuries; each wound had been worthy of contemplation, each imperfection a prize to be earned. The round white scars that bullets left behind, like eyes fixed permanently wide in surprise; the long jagged knife wounds; the pretty patterns of healed burns.

But years had passed and his scars had faded and withered, fallen out of shape. He no longer remembered where many of them had come from.

A few were impossible to forget. There was the long gash on his abdomen from a helicopter crash over Afghanistan; as long as he lived, he would remember the way the flesh there had split open like an orange and the red and gray of his guts had poured out, squeezed between his fingers and pooled in his lap. There was another scar on his chest, a star-shaped one, close to his heart. A bullet had pierced him there, kissed his left aorta like a lover, and then lodged in a rib.

Ocelot's fingers brushed past that scar sometimes, just before he slept. He could find it even in the dark, even through layers of clothing.

Jack had never liked gifts, but he had given Ocelot that scar. And Ocelot was grateful for it.

Rising from bed, Ocelot straightened his lapels, adjusted his belts so they fell flush over his hip. He slid a hand up under his hair, untying the leather cord there and letting it fall loose around his shoulders.

He went to the window, opened the shutter slats. A ladder of colorless light fell across the floor. Outside, the snow fell steady but unhurried. There was already a blanket on the ground, and across the yard Ocelot could see the electric fence steaming in the wet air. Beneath his window, a single pair of footsteps darkened the snow. Someone had passed - not quickly, no, but with purpose – close to the wall and then around the corner where the steps disappeared from view. They were fresh; the snow had only just begun to fill them in again.

There was no one in sight, and it made Ocelot feel vaguely uneasy, as though he had come upon the trail of a mournful wandering ghost.

He looked down at his hands, regarded them with suspicion a moment, and then began to test his fingers for movement. They bent easily, with only a little pain; the damp chill didn't seem to have affected them much.

Ocelot didn't try to figure out why. He knew that sometimes things didn't happen as they should. When error was in his favor, he was grateful. And when it wasn't, in a way, he was grateful for that too.

He reached up, setting a hand over his heart, digging two fingers in. The scar there was little more than a faint white stain, a bleached place, but Ocelot liked to imagine that he could feel it all the same.

A letter could be burned. A gun could be lost. A photograph could be torn, and even a tattoo could be removed. A man could die and turn to dust and his face, which you thought you would never forget, could turn hazy around the edges. The color of his eyes could be unlearned.

But that scar would never leave him. It would be his, as long as he lived.

When he was younger, Ocelot had been obsessed with the mechanics of death. Growing up, hardly a month had gone by that he hadn't seen someone die. He had watched as they died blue and black from hypothermia; shaking and wracked with spasms, coughing up bright crimson blossoms of blood; blind from drinking bootleg vodka; gasping and clawing at their wounds.

He had watched, unblinking, until he could do it without recoiling, without feeling that hard black knot of dread in his stomach. Until he had learned not to fear his own death, whenever it might come. It was impossible to not be aware that he would die, someday, but it was useless to worry about it.

With a quick, decisive motion, Ocelot swept his hair back and tied it in place.

He was seized with the sudden desire to leave this room. Though the events of the night before no longer seemed so intense, so violent, in the light of day, Ocelot did not doubt for a moment that they had happened.

They had no bearing on his mission, and so Ocelot was determined to ignore them; however, Raikov's audacity had bothered him. He must have had something very urgent to say. That didn't surprise Ocelot, though he suspected the message was nothing he hadn't heard before.

Liar. Traitor. Judas. Whore.

Ocelot had never needed to be told what he was. Raikov's presence was unexpected, but not a reason to worry.

There was the other, though. Ever since they had given him nanomachines to reinforce his neural defenses, Ocelot hadn't had much trouble from him. But if he had found a way to subvert the psychic interference…

Ocelot's expression tightened.

It didn't matter. He had never found a Snake he couldn't kill.

Ocelot snapped the shutters closed again, and went out, down the stairs to Groznyj Grad's lower floors.

He glanced into the kitchen as he passed. It was empty except for Lieutenant Vulich, fast asleep at one of the long tables with his head pillowed on his arms. His black hair was tangled and uncombed, and it fell over his throat and temple like streaks of ink. He breathing was deep and even, and with each exhalation, a little puddle grew beneath the corner of his mouth.

He didn't stir, and Ocelot shut the door again and moved on. It was better to go hungry than to risk waking the Lieutenant from a sound sleep. This morning, Ocelot felt anxious, and he was in no mood for Vulich’s nonsense.

Ocelot wasn't sure where he was going until he had left the more familiar wings of Groznyj Grad behind, until he was already in front of the elevator that descended to the underground lab.

It was instinct or subconscious that had brought him here, but as he tugged off his glove, pressed his palm to the cold steel handle, he knew why. The tight confines of that room and the press of the earth above him would make everything smaller. Small enough to see it all at a glance.

He took the elevator down, and the two guards at the end of the hall snapped to attention as Ocelot passed. Inside the lab, it was warm and sterile. The faint buzz of machinery pervading the air was both welcoming and artificial. The computer monitors were turned off, and the lights were low. Only a few of the overhead fluorescent panels had been left to burn overnight, and the room was heavy with shadows. But from behind one of the tall computer terminals, a faint blue glow spilled across the floor, an oasis of light.

Ocelot moved closer, skirting carefully around the desks and filing cabinets. His boots made no sound, neither on the carpet nor on the tiled part of the floor. One of the monitors had been switched on, but it didn't seem to be running a program. The screen was a deep, unbroken blue. Neither light nor dark, pale nor intense: the kind of color only a machine could produce.

At first, Ocelot didn't realize that there was anyone at the terminal.

Innokenty was small, and his head didn't show over the back of the desk chair he was sitting in. It wasn't until Ocelot was close enough to see the boy's hands gripping the chairs arms that he knew he was there. Sitting motionless, his eyes unfocused but fixed on the monitor in front of him.

He didn't glance up from the computer, but he tilted his head slightly, as though listening to a faint sound.

"Hello, Shalashaska. You're up early."

There was a strange tremor in Innokenty's voice, a mechanical flatness to it. It was still the voice of a child, but it had the weight of an adult's.

"I could say the same thing about you." Ocelot set a hand on one of the computer chairs, turning it so he could sit facing Innokenty. The boy still didn't look at him; in the light from the monitor, his skin was sickly and pale, his eyes sunken and his cheekbones hollow.

He glanced at the computer screen, in time to see a faint movement pass across it. Not a flicker. Something more like a contraction, like the pulse of a heart buried in all that blue.

"I couldn't sleep," Innokenty said.

"No? Do you feel sick again?"

Innokenty shook his head. "Not really. It's just that sometimes…"

Ocelot shifted forward slightly. "Sometimes?"

"Sometimes I think too hard. Does that ever happen to you?"

"Maybe," Ocelot said. "But I have more to think about than you do. You're just a kid."

"But I still can't sleep."

"What are you doing out here?"

Innokenty lowered his eyes, staring down at his hands, neatly folded in his lap. "Matryona was telling me a story."

It was such an absurd thing to say that Ocelot wanted to laugh. But he couldn't bring himself to.

"A story about what?" he said.

Innokenty's eyes swung towards him, out from beneath the shadows that had cloaked them. His pupils were dilated, so big that only a tiny thread of blue iris was visible around their edges. They gave him a blind, staring look.

"About you," he said quietly.

Ocelot leaned back in his chair to escape the unblinking intensity of Innokenty's gaze. "What does Matryona know about me?"

"A lot of things," Innokenty said. "You've always been a soldier. She has a lot of stories about you. Stories that even you don't know."

"Are you so sure about that?" Ocelot smiled thinly. "I know quite a bit."

"But you don't know everything." Innokenty's voice was like a sigh, as he began to turn back to the computer monitor.

Ocelot reached out, his hand closing around Innokenty's wrist, pinning it to the arm of the chair. "Like what?"

Innokenty was quiet for a moment, staring into the blue monitor as though into a deep well. "She was telling me about Major Raikov."

Ocelot almost started at that name. It had been forty years since he'd heard it spoken aloud. It was an old word, an anachronism, and it didn't sound right when said in such a young voice.

But Raikov was more than just a name to him, and he could guess what Innokenty might know…

If Ocelot had been a younger man, he might have blushed.

"That doesn't sound like a very interesting story," he said.

"It is, though."

The air hummed with electricity. The sound rushed to fill every silence, every hesitation, every pause between words.

It was like someone speaking continually in a hushed voice, in a language Ocelot had never learned. But he thought now that if he only listened hard enough, he would begin to understand, be able to pluck words from the air like snowflakes tossed by a breeze.

And all the secrets that this room kept would begin to take shape before him.

His fingers twitched around Innokenty's wrist, but Ocelot barely noticed.

"Tell me," he said.

Innokenty shuddered. His voice was steady, and in the artificial light from the monitor, it was easy to forget that he was just a boy.

"He was never with the KGB," Innokenty said. "He must have been very surprised that he could lie to you. You were the best liar he'd ever known…"

That was nothing new. They were all liars, back then.

He didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know the answer, but the question came anyway. "Who did he work for, Innokenty?"

"Haven't you figured it out?"

Innokenty turned toward him, and as he moved the computer monitor flickered. Ocelot felt the boy tense slightly, a moment before the lights went out.

The computer terminals flicked off, and the metallic hum faded from the air. The darkness that settled over the room was absolute and terrible. Ocelot knew his eyes would never adjust to darkness like this, could never begin to adjust.

"Shalashaska?" Innokenty whispered. There was a quiver in his voice; it had lost the hard edge from a moment ago. "It's cold in here."

And Ocelot realized, the boy was right.

"What…?" Innokenty began. But a soft click interrupted him. The emergency generators kicking in.

Immediately, the office was flooded with dim red light from the bulbs above the doors.

Innokenty set a hand over the one on his wrist. Ocelot shook his head absently. "It's nothing."

"That hurts."

Ocelot glanced down, realized he was still gripping Innokenty's wrist, grinding it into the arm of the chair.

He drew his hand back.

Innokenty pulled his arm to his chest, cradling it there. Rubbing his wrist where a bruise was already beginning to show above the cuff of his shirt.

"Innokenty," Ocelot said. "What were you going to tell me?"

The boy glanced up at him. Deep in the walls, there was a low mechanical hiss as the power started up again. One at a time the fluorescent panels flicked on, flooding the room with harsh white light.

Innokenty didn't blink.

"Shalashaska," he said solemnly. "Have you read the book I gave you? I'd really like it if you did…"

Ocelot blinked at the sudden change of subject. It was strange coming from Innokenty, who had always been direct until now. But before he could answer, one of the doors in the back of the lab clicked open.

Dr. Novikov – his hair pulled back impeccably at the nape of his neck; white coat spotless and crisp – emerged from one of the small apartments. He couldn't have been awake for long, but there were no cobwebs of sleep clinging to his face. No shadows beneath his eyes or bleariness to his features.

"Well,” he said briskly, shrewdly. “What's all this?"

"I couldn't sleep, sir." Innokenty's eyes were fixed on the floor.

"And what about you, Shalashaska?" Novikov smiled, like a snake would smile. "Does something keep you up nights?"

Ocelot pushed to his feet, swinging his coat back so he could slip his right hand into a pocket. It was an unconscious gesture, automatic as bending his arm to absorb the recoil from a gunshot. He hadn't known he was going to do it until it was done, and even afterwards he wasn't exactly sure why.

"I was just making sure everything was in order here."

"Ah." Novikov came forward, setting his hand briefly on Innokenty's shoulder as he passed. When he stood directly in front of Ocelot, he had to tilt his head neither up nor down to meet his eyes. They were, Ocelot realized, the exact same height.

"Am I to your satisfaction, Shalashaska?" When Ocelot didn't answer right away, Novikov's gaze brightened with silent amusement, laughter buried so deep inside it was just an echo bouncing off the walls of a trench. "Close enough for government work, maybe?"

"Close enough," Ocelot said, but he turned away, unsettled by something he could not place. "I'll be back when you need me."

He felt Kesha's eyes on his back, all the way to the door.


	15. Chapter 15

The ride back to the surface gave Ocelot time to think. He was grateful for that; he had a lot to think over.

But it wasn't Novikov that preoccupied him, nor all the secrets he had and the malicious delight he took in them. Neither did he consider Innokenty, and the message he had seemed desperate to deliver.

Instead, he thought about Raikov, and all the strange accidents that heralded his coming. Nearly all the spirits he had known caused some kind of atmospheric change when they were near, but Ocelot had never encountered anything as dramatic as the ones Raikov produced. The cold was the most noticeable, and the one that Ocelot had decided he hated the most.

It was strange that Raikov should bring cold like that with him now.

He had always been hot as hell.

***

Ocelot had been in the jungle since early that morning. Though he knew it had been less than twenty-four hours since he had taken the transport down the rocky mountain road from Groznyj Grad, it felt like days. He had left with the Ocelot Unit in the gray hours before dawn broke, and returned in the deep blue light that followed on the heels of the setting sun.

It was late, well past the time he should have retired from his duties for the night, when Major Ocelot crossed the fortresses' main hall toward the wing that housed the soldiers' barracks. His feet dragged, but his manner was brisk and determined.

His boots left a trail of brown footprints on the spotless white tile, smeared slightly at the toes. He spared them only a brief glance. They would have to be cleaned, but not by him. It wasn't like him to be so careless, especially where his uniform was concerned. If he kicked his boots under the camp bed tonight, out of sight, he'd never be suspected. Besides, scrubbing the floors was degrading work; improper for someone of his rank.

There was a fleeting pain in his joints: the backs of his knees, his hips, the balls of his shoulders. He knew that by the morning, the faint stiffness in his muscles would have dug in deeper, becoming a persistent ache. Ocelot lowered his head, letting it loll forward so he could rub at the back of his neck. His boots were caked with mud and the cuffs of his pants were splattered with dirt. It was unfitting for an officer, and he was glad there was no one around to see him like this.

"Major Ocelot."

There had always been something unusual about Raikov's voice; it was in the way he could always sound so quiet, so solicitous. Even when Raikov was calling to him from the overhead catwalk, his words were no more intrusive than a whisper breathed into his ear, or a promise murmured across a few white inches of pillow.

Ocelot's own voice seemed to carry no matter how low he tried to pitch it, so he had learned to keep his secrets close.

"Major."

Ocelot glanced up as Raikov turned away. His hair was more white than blond under the harsh lights, and when he moved it swayed around his collar, flashing like a fish in a stream.

His boots clicked sharply on the grate above Ocelot's head, moving away, in the direction of the stairs.

Ocelot went swiftly to meet him; it was late enough that the foyer was empty except for the two of them, but that could change. He caught Raikov's arm as he reached the bottom steps and dragged him, without a word, into the shadowed alcove beneath the stairs. Raikov didn't fight him; he just laughed as Ocelot shoved him out of sight and moved in behind him to screen him from sight.

"How exciting," Raikov murmured. He reached up, wrapping his hands loosely around the steel beam that ran over his head.

"Quiet," Ocelot snapped. "What are you doing? I thought you were going to be careful."

Raikov may have been an asset to him, but that didn't mean he could stop being discreet now. But whatever information he had must have been important if it couldn't wait for the morning.

"I'm very careful. Am I supposed to pretend I don't know you, Adamska?" He shook his head. "I doubt that. Everyone here knows your name."

"Not everyone yells it in the middle of the night."

"Oh, I don't doubt that." Raikov laughed softly. "But I'm not the one dragging you around and hiding in the shadows."

Ocelot glanced away. "Raikov…"

Raikov sighed, pushing up on his toes and unhooking his hands from the bar above his head. He wasn't wearing his gloves, Ocelot realized. His hands were white, delicate, and defenseless as moths. They fluttered in the air for a moment before coming to rest on Ocelot's shoulders. Raikov pressed his palms against Ocelot's chest, long fingers fanning apart. His cheeks were flushed slightly, his lips parted, as though he had something important to say, and Ocelot inclined his head forward to give him his full attention

All at once, Raikov shoved him back.

"Adamska, you're all wet."

Ocelot took him by the wrists, prying his hands away. His fingers were cold, and he knew Raikov's skin would be warm to the touch, but Ocelot's gloves were a poreless sheath, a barrier that kept the chill in and the heat out.

"It's raining out."

"Really?" Raikov didn't try to pull away. His wrists were fragile, Ocelot realized, the bones small and birdlike. "I love the rain. Let's go outside."

"Don't be stupid, Raikov. Besides, it's not raining here. Down in the jungles, I meant."

It had been warm down in the jungle, too. The rain had been like bathwater. It wasn't until they had begun their ascent up the mountain that the chill had set in, making Ocelot's uniform stiff with ice. Freezing his hair into hard little blond spikes that split and snap off if he tried to run his fingers through them.

"Is that where you've been all day?" Raikov asked.

Ocelot nodded. "On patrol. Look, Raikov, do you have intel for me or not?"

"Where are your men, then?"

"I sent them on ahead while I checked the perimeter. They were tired. It's freezing outside."

"Is that why you're shivering, Adamska?"

"I'm not shivering."

"I can feel you."

Ocelot snorted, dropping Raikov's hands.

"And tired?" Raikov purred. "Aren't you tired too?"

Ocelot rolled his eyes. "What do you want?"

Raikov smiled, turning his head so his hair fell coyly over his face. "I'm just worried about your health. You're going to die very young if you keep this up."

Ocelot leaned forward, gripping the bar above his head in one hand so he could bend over Raikov, forcing him deeper into the niche beneath the stairs. Raikov sank back readily, like an exotic creature from the depths of an oceanic trench that had surfaced for a moment into the light and then retreated again.

"Raikov," Ocelot said. There was no animosity in his voice, but neither was there his usual flippancy. His words were like black stones dropped on the smooth surface of a lake. "Don't fucking play with me tonight."

Raikov lifted his eyes. "Don't be angry, Adamska. We're comrades, remember?"

Ocelot sighed. When he had first come in from the cold, shutting the door against the wind, he hadn't felt exhausted, but he knew that was only because his bed hadn't been so far away. Raikov seemed to know this, and it seemed also to give him great delight to wrest Ocelot's well deserved sleep away from him.

The events of the day had blunted Ocelot, made him dull, but Raikov was in the mood for war.

Ocelot knew better than to throw himself into battle unprepared. Raikov had his ways, and he knew how to cut to the bone. Though Ocelot had grudgingly come to respect that about him, he still didn't like the idea of having it turned against him. Especially now, when Raikov had made it clear that his goal was more than just reconnaissance, and that he was keeping track of every favor Ocelot owed him.

"Tell me what you know," Ocelot said. "Or I'm going to bed."

Raikov smiled coyly. "I know a lot, Adamska. I'll tell you."

"That's more like it," Ocelot said.

But Raikov only turned his face away and seemed to become absorbed in thought. "Do you ever wonder why they gave me my codename?"

"Eva?" Ocelot shook his head. "Something from mythology, right? The old religions."

"Old?" Raikov said. "It hasn't been that long. Our parents believed…"

"Mine didn't."

"Listen to this," Raikov said. "Adam and Eve. They were the first people on earth. They would have been perfect, but they were too curious. They were easily tempted. They ate from the Tree of Knowledge and it was like opening their eyes for the first time. For the first time, they could really see. And the first thing they realized was how ugly life really was. God may have been proud of what he had made, but Adam and Eve just weren't impressed anymore."

"I don't see what's wrong with that," Ocelot snorted.

Raikov laughed softly. "It must have been so sudden. Like when you pry a rock out of the ground and you can see everything squirming around underneath it."

"It sounds like you're saying it's better to stay ignorant."

"I'm not saying anything. I'm just telling a story." He glanced up, meeting Ocelot's eyes. "You've really never heard this before?"

"It's only superstition," Ocelot muttered. "We're reasonable people here. We're not in the Dark Ages anymore."

"That's what they say."

"You don't believe this, do you? That we're all descended from a couple of ignorant, inbred gypsies?"

Raikov laughed. It was loud in the enclosed space beneath the stairs. "You asked me what I know, Adamska. Not what I believe. I don't really know what I believe these days, to be honest."

"Be careful of who hears you say that."

"Going to report me?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You don't think it's your duty?"

"If I did, you'd have been interrogated a long time ago."

Raikov nodded, as though pleased. "Then maybe you're afraid I'm going to disappear on you. Is that it?"

"It would be a stupid reason to get caught. That's all."

"Don't worry," Raikov said softly. He reached out, and Ocelot felt the familiar press of hands on his chest, the slight pressure of Raikov's body as he leaned against him. This time, he didn't seem to mind the damp. "I would never leave you."

Raikov had rested against him only gently, tentatively, but it pushed Ocelot back a step. Though the man's weight was easy to bear, was maybe even comfortable, tonight it was almost enough to knock him off his feet. Ocelot rocked back on his heels slightly, catching hold of the edge of the stairs to steady himself. Raikov, accustomed by now to something more steadfast and unyielding, looked up at him curiously.

But this time, there was something strange in Raikov's expression that made Ocelot recoil. He couldn't place the look at first, but he knew immediately that he didn't like it.

Half horrified and half alarmed, he pushed Raikov away. "If you don't have anything to give me, then let me go."

Ocelot didn't wait for an answer. He slapped Raikov's hands away from his uniform and turned, ducking out from beneath the stairs. He was tired, and he should have been fast asleep by now, not listening to Raikov ramble and preach.

"Wait." He heard Raikov move to follow him. "Wait, Adamska…"

He didn't stop, but Raikov, lowering his voice to almost a whisper, went on. "What can I give you? What do I have that you want?"

A hand clutched his arm. A soft, pale, ungloved hand. Ocelot dug his heels in, turning back sharply to face him.

Raikov stumbled a step, but couldn't stop fast enough. And then he was in Ocelot's arms. Pressed against him, their faces almost touching. Ocelot could feel the kiss of warm breath on his lips.

"Adamska…"

Ocelot shoved him back, and then, to make sure that Raikov stayed away this time, he slapped him, backhanded, across the face. The sound of leather striking skin was like a gunshot.

Raikov's head snapped back, but he didn't cry out.

One of his hands flew to the side of his face, covering his cheek before Ocelot could get a good look at it. He didn't have to see, though. He knew he had hit Raikov hard. That there would be blood, and a bruise already beginning to form on his delicate skin.

"I see," Raikov whispered. Still clutching his face, he drew himself up straight, bringing the heels of his boots together sharply, as if he was preparing to salute.

"Have a good night, Major," he said. His voice was even; his blue eyes shuttered like windows against a storm. "I hope you sleep well."

He turned sharply, without looking back. Ocelot watching him go, until he disappeared up the stairs. And then he listened until his footfalls had receded.

Ocelot shook his head slightly, but as he began to walk away he realized he could still see very clearly the strange expression that had turned Raikov's lips the moment before Ocelot pushed him away. Like a bright tattoo burning into the darkness behind his eyelids.

Ocelot hadn't recognized the look at first, and perhaps that was exactly why it had made him angry. Though he hadn't known it then, he did now, and he knew, too, that he shouldn't have expected anything else from someone like Raikov.

He was Major Ocelot, and he had no use for anyone's sympathy.


	16. Chapter 16

They drove up the coast out of Athens.

For a while, Raiden could see the ocean out the window. He caught glimpses of it in the valleys between the towering hotels and tall narrow buildings that housed shops and apartments. Vamp had taken the first shift at the wheel, and his eyes were fixed straight ahead, not on the road in front of them, but on some spot far in the distance, somewhere they would never reach. His profile was unchanging, his expression as steady as the sea.

In this light especially, Raiden thought, his skin was pale, like one of those statues they would come upon suddenly when the narrow cobblestone streets spilled without warning into open plazas. Raiden didn't mind looking like he would at one of those statues, but, as with a work of art, he'd have to be pretty desperate to try to hold a conversation.

There was nothing for him to do but try to enjoy the drive.

When they had left the hotel that morning, Raiden had been worried they wouldn't be able to find the car that had been left for them, but they had discovered it at the east end of the hotel, where the wall of the building crowded awkwardly up against the street. Rows of compact European cars were parked along both curbs, squeezing the street from a comfortable two lanes down to a cramped one. There was also one olive drab Jeep parked conspicuously in their midst.

It didn't sit right with Raiden, who had been trained in stealth. It was hard to vanish into his mission like a wraith when there were eight cylinders roaring under the hood, but they were already close to the outskirts of the city, and it was too late to complain.

Besides, he knew just what Vamp would do if he tried to argue. He had a way of looking utterly disgusted without really changing his expression. Having been on the receiving end of his irritation several times already since they had left New York, Raiden was in no hurry to experience it again.

Biting his lips, Raiden turned slowly, casually, to glance at Vamp's profile. He was still looking straight ahead; his eyes were narrowed slightly against the sun and his lips were pressed tight.

He looked like he'd never cracked a genuine smile in his life. He probably didn't even have theoretical knowledge of what laughter was. It was like some kind of emotional dyslexia, Raiden thought; like one of those otherwise brilliant people who couldn't help but transpose letters when they wrote, or who couldn't do even simple addition without a calculator.

It was possible that Vamp didn't even know there was something missing, but it was also possible that he knew, and he was grateful for it. You could never tell with a man like that. And that, Raiden reminded himself, was why he had to watch his back. He was tired of unpredictability, of infinite variables.

He wanted something boring.

After this mission, when he was back in the States, he was going to live as predictably as a prime time sitcom. After this last thread was tied up, it was going to be what he deserved. No more, and no less.

Satisfied, Raiden turned back to the window, but he held his head at an angle, so he could see Vamp's reflection.

After a while, they left the city behind.

The buildings gave way to farmhouses. The plazas ceded to low, blunted hills; the statues to yellow trees. In the distance, there were higher mountains, pale blue and haloed at the top with clouds. The road angled away from the sea. For a few minutes after he lost sight of it, Raiden could still smell the salt on the air, but soon that was gone, too.

He folded his coat around himself restlessly, tucking his hands into it.

"It's only going to get colder from here."

Raiden rolled his eyes. He should have known; Vamp never missed anything.

"I know. I'm okay."

"It's a shame. I'm going to miss this place."

Raiden glanced over. Vamp still wasn't looking at him. The high collar of his black coat and the harsh light streaming through the windshield made him look pale as exposed bone.

"You mean you're going to miss all the girls sunbathing topless."

"Aren't you?"

Raiden snorted. "That's not my thing."

"Rows of tanned, perky tits aren't your thing? That military conditioning must run deep."

"Hey, I've seen plenty of tits before!" He hadn't meant to sound defensive, but Raiden realized that a moment too late to stop himself. He blushed. "I mean…"

"I know what you mean. I know you don't really deserve your name, Ingenue."

"That's not my name."

"But you're Ingenue to me."

Raiden sighed. "Look, I just meant, I'm not a teenager anymore. There's no thrill to just looking."

"No? You were looking at me awfully intently earlier."

There was no time to enact damage control. A deep flush bloomed across the bridge of Raiden's nose; he turned away sharply. "I wasn't looking at you," he muttered. "You just happened to be where I was looking."

"Pardon me. I'll be more considerate next time."

Raiden shook his head. "All right, fine. Let's just talk about something else."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Raiden started to glance back, then caught himself. He turned deliberately to stare out the window.

He didn't speak again.

For as long as Raiden could remember, driving in silence had been almost unbearable. It wasn't the silence that bothered him, it was the noise that resonated just beneath the silence: the wind against the Jeep's soft top and the crunch of gravel beneath the tires. They made him ache, made him hum with tension. Back in New York, he had known all the good radio stations, even the little pirate one out of NYU that played all the local bands. He had listened without really hearing, just to keep the quiet at bay. He had never been very good at remembering lyrics, or which songs belonged to who, but he had always been grateful for the company when he was alone.

But they were a long way from New York, and Raiden wasn't sure what to expect if he reached over and turned the Jeep's stereo on. Vamp didn't seem like he would have any patience for Raiden's attempts to find out.

If there was one thing that would make this trip worse than Vamp's silence, it would be his contempt.

Raiden sighed, his breath painting the window with fog.

They had picked up a lot of speed since abandoning the cobblestone streets of Athens for smooth highway blacktop. The pavement wasn't as well maintained as the Interstates back home. Its two narrow lanes were rutted with potholes, like a State Road somewhere in the Midwest.

Outside, the hills slid by in waves, and they were gone before Raiden could get a good look at them.

"I didn't mean to stare, you know," Raiden said at last.

"I know."

"It didn't really bother you, did it?"

"No."

At least Vamp didn't seem to mind the silence that rose like a wall between them.

Good fences make good neighbors, Raiden thought.

Frost was Rose's favorite. That was what she had said, at least. And Raiden knew she had lied about a lot of things, but not about that. She knew those poems too well. The one about the two roads. The Death of the Hired Man. The woods on a snowy evening.

And that one about the Wall. She had liked it the best; had even kept a little wooden plaque carved with a stanza from it over her bed.

 _Before I built a wall I'd ask to know…_

That was all he could remember.

 _Before I built a wall…_

Something important came after that. Important to Rose, at least; she had breathed a little sigh when she read it. A little, almost imperceptible, rise and fall of her chest.

Raiden had never understood what she saw in it.

'Facile.' That was what he wanted to say, but never dared to.

But still, after she had left, he had picked up a used copy of Frost's collected verse at a used bookstore in The Village. The dustjacket had been lost long ago, and the plain green cover was wrapped in plastic, the kind of binding you'd expect to find in a school library.

He hadn't read it yet, but it was sitting next to his bed at home. Waiting for him to return.

 _Before I built a wall I'd ask to know…_

He knew that Vamp might know the rest. Those strange, expressionless eyes were keeping secrets that Raiden couldn't even guess at. Maybe he could fill in the blanks, provide what was missing.

"Adrian?"

"Yeah?"

Raiden's lips parted, but then he paused, was quiet a moment.

"Do you mind if I try the radio?"

Vamp shook his head.

"No. Go ahead. Find something good."


	17. Chapter 17

He was being watched.

Even in his sleep he could feel it, and that was what woke him.

When Vulich opened his eyes, it was on a strange room, scenery he didn't recognize immediately, but it had been almost eight years since he had joined the army, and almost every night since then he had slept on foreign soil. He no longer felt the momentary surge of panic that sometimes accompanied waking in a strange place.

He knew immediately that he was alone. There were no footsteps on the tile floor, no muted sounds of breathing; but as Vulich straightened, wincing at the knot of tension between his shoulder blades, he realized he could still feel that weight on his turned back, where a gaze had settled on him while he slept.

There was a cold cup of coffee at his elbow. He remembered now; it had been just past midnight when he had come to the kitchen to wait out the hours until the changing of the guard beneath the bright fluorescent lights.

He hadn't thought then that he was tired, but he could tell by the slate-colored light seeping in around the shutters that now it was close to dawn. Almost six hours had passed.

Six hours, Vulich thought bitterly. Half the night, wasted.

But if he had slept, then he must have only dreamed he was being watched.

That didn't seem right. Vulich was a practical man, and he didn't give much thought to his dreams. He didn't believe in keeping secrets from himself, and so he had no need to analyze them.

He pushed away from the table, hard enough that the chair he had been sitting in rattled against the floor, tilted on two legs and nearly fell. The door hung open a few inches. When Vulich touched the handle, it still felt warm beneath his hand.

Maybe it was only his imagination.

A quick scan of the hallway revealed nothing – it was empty – but by now he was convinced.

Someone had stood here, where no one logically should have been standing. Scrutinized him, when no one should have been paying him any attention.

He wouldn't stand for that on his watch.

Vulich started down the corridor, boots clicking sharply on the tile. There was an intersection a dozen meters down, where a corridor branched toward the western wing of the fortress. Vulich stepped around the blind corner created by the junction, and he froze. Ducked back, out of sight.

That faded brown coat, long white hair…he had known it at a glance. This was the second morning in a row that Ocelot had gone to the western wing in the hours before reveille. The soldiers' quarters were on the other side of Groznyj Grad; it was a long way to travel, especially for an old man like Ocelot.

Vulich chanced another glance around the corner. Ocelot's back was still turned; he was moving away.

Raking his long hair back with one hand, Vulich followed.

It was harder than he had thought to keep silent; his heavy boots hadn't been made for stealth. He briefly considered taking them off, but if he did he might lose Ocelot's trail. Besides, it would be terribly undignified for a ranked officer like himself.

In the end, he pushed forward onto the balls of his feet and followed at a distance.

The western wing of the fortress housed all of Groznyj Grad's computer and electrical equipment. Clearly, the only business Ocelot could have had there was sabotage. Vulich had been watching him for years, and he felt he was safe in assuming that he knew how the man's mind worked.

If he could catch him in the act, Vulich thought, then he'd finally have proof. Vindication, at last

Further down the hall, Ocelot stopped before one of the unmarked doors. Vulich stumbled back a few steps, around a bend in the corridor and out of sight. He pressed his back to the wall, glancing around the corner.

Ocelot hesitated a moment before the door, eyes fixed straight ahead, before opening it. As soon as he had disappeared inside, Vulich slipped out into the corridor. He dropped one hand to the hilt of his pistol, and tried the door with the other.

It didn't budge. The handle was stiff and motionless beneath his fingers. It didn't even rattle like a locked door would have. The longer he held it, the more it seemed it was warmer than it should have been, unnaturally so. Baffled, Vulich stepped back, looking the door over. There wasn't a lock that he could see, and the door was fit tight in its frame. He wouldn't be able to slide a knife in to pop the latch.

His face twisted in annoyance. Usually he was good at keeping his emotions contained, packed down like the dirt on top of a grave but what he did feel, he invariably felt it like a fist.

He kicked the door, a solid blow that reverberated down the hall and up the length of his leg.

Very well; he would wait. Whatever was behind that door, Ocelot couldn't stay there forever. Vulich stepped back, leaning against the opposite wall of the corridor and folding his arms over his chest. He knew he could cut an imposing figure when he tried, and that was precisely what he wanted to be doing when Ocelot emerged.

He wanted to watch that old bastard's expression collapse in on itself. He wanted to see him turn pale, just for a moment, but by that point Vulich would already have his pistol in his hand…

The clatter of footsteps from the end of the hall shook Vulich abruptly from his daydreams, and he turned sharply to face the source of the intrusion. Three soldiers in the familiar colors of the Gurlukovich army were coming towards him, talking amongst themselves. By the sound of their voices, Vulich could tell they weren't discussing business. From the way they walked, he knew they were not on duty, but they were not loud. Even their laughter reached Vulich only in quiet, indistinct murmurs. These were not young men anymore, and they had become subdued with age.

Though Vulich was an officer, he was fifteen years younger than almost all the soldiers under his command. It hadn't always been that way, but all the young men were gone now, leaving only these middle-aged career soldiers. These wolf-like, scar-patched mercenaries who had nowhere else to go and nowhere better to be.

Vulich knew that they were only here because they had no hope, and he knew that was what made him different. He couldn't leave, because this army was the only hope he had left.

It didn't make him angry, because the other soldiers were almost old men now. They were stubborn. If he was to show them the truth, then he would have to force them to see. But Vulich wasn't particularly worried. There would be time for that later. In the end, the truth would be too big, too luminous and brilliant, for them to deny.

When they looked up, noticed Vulich watching them, they quieted, hesitating.

The Lieutenant's expression didn't change. "Are you off duty?"

"Yes, sir," said the one named Vassily. "Just relieved by Boris and Kostya Vladimirovich."

Vassily was nearly fifty, but he still had a full mane of thick black hair, which he wore long, proof of his Cossack blood, the old Caucasian heritage he was prone to boasting about when he'd had too much to drink.

"Good," Vulich said. He attempted to smile, but abandoned it almost immediately when it began to ache. "Get some sleep. I need you back in the evening."

"Yes, sir."

He didn't hesitate, but there was an unmistakable hollowness in his voice. A weariness as deep as the lines age had carved around his eyes. He moved again, and the others followed. They didn't speak again, and as they passed Vulich, they didn't look at him.

The Lieutenant almost let them, but it didn't sit right. No soldier of his should have looked so defeated.

He reached out, snagging Vassily's elbow with two fingertips. "After this job, we'll go to the Middle East, I think. There's still plenty of work there. We'll reinforce our ranks…"

Vassily glanced at him. First at Vulich's hand, that tenuous friction where they touched; then he lifted his eyes to Vulich's face, and he laughed. "Well, sir. It'll be warmer, at any rate. That'll be nice for us. Not so nice for the poor dogs who throw their lots in with this army, though."

Vulich drew his hand back sharply, as though he had been burnt. "What do you mean?"

Vassily only shrugged. "Nothing, sir. It's just a lot of effort to go to, when we both know there's no point in trying to save a foundering ship."

Vulich's eyes narrowed, but he kept his voice low. "You have no faith…"

"Oh, I have plenty of faith. But I know a lost cause when I see it." He smiled, because there wasn't anything else he could do. "If you don't mind me saying so, sir."

"And I know treason when I hear it," Vulich snapped.

Vassily only laughed. "You can relax." He jerked his hand back, motioning vaguely at his two companions, both of them leaning now against the wall. They seemed neither interested in nor particularly concerned by the conversation. "We talked it over already. We're not going anywhere."

"A lot of men have deserted already."

"I know," Vassily said. "But I served Colonel Gurlukovich for thirty years, and I've put a lot of brothers in the ground in that time. I know how to take a hint, sir. This is where I belong, I think."

"You sound bitter, though. Don't you believe in-"

Vassily waved his hand dismissively. "Don't you think it's too early to start that again? Right now, all I believe in is a few hours of sleep before I have to go back on duty."

Vulich reached up slowly, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He might have pressed the point, berated Vassily for his flippancy, but he didn't want to anymore. The fire that had begun to heat in his belly had been extinguished abruptly. A gust of wet, icy wind had passed through him and left even the embers cold.

The soldier's words made his chest tighten with a strange combination of resentment and disappointment, anger and pity. He didn't know what it meant; didn't want to know.

He waved Vassily on. "You're dismissed. Go get some rest."

Vassily tipped his shaggy head. "What about you, sir?"

"What about me?"

"What are you doing now?"

"I…" Vulich's eyes strayed momentarily to the door where Ocelot had disappeared, still sealed against him and all his grand intentions.

"Nothing," he said firmly. "I'm not doing anything."

"You look like you've on your feet for days. Maybe you should get some sleep too."

Vulich shook his head. "No. I'm fine like this."

But even as he said the words, he knew that the vigil he kept was useless. Ocelot would not reappear as long as he was watching. He had already found another way out. Slipped through the cracks like vapor, or simply vanished, like a fist when you open your hand.

He was chasing ghosts, when he should have been concerned with flesh and blood.

He sighed, glanced once more at the locked door, and then turned away.

"I'm fine," he said again, quietly.

***

Vulich had never smoked in his life, but occasionally there were moments when he wished he did.

Outside Groznyj Grad, the sky was gray and reticent. The steely clouds hung low over the mountaintop, pressing down so hard that the Lieutenant felt crushed beneath them. For perhaps the first time since arriving in this place, he noticed how thin the air was this high above sea level.

Vulich had been born in a valley between two mountain ranges. A well where three veins of copper flowed together in the earth, and deposits of tin and copper ore ran as deep as the sea. The air was desert air: dry and rich, reeking of the chemicals used in mining. In the dead of winter, the cold was oppressive, but never like the damp bone-deep chill atop this mountain.

It was times like this, when Vulich hadn't seen the sun in days and heavy black clouds made the middle of the morning as dark as the last light of evening, that he almost missed that place where he had been born. He knew it was irrational, but he wished, too, that he had a cigarette. This was a mountain that towered above even the others in the range, and it was already hard to breathe when he was this close to Heaven.

No one knew that Vulich still believed in the God of his ancestors. He kept that knowledge secret, not out of embarrassment or inconsistency, but because it seemed more sacred that way. Vulich's grandfather had been Russian by birth, a member of the Party by indoctrination, and an exile in Kazakhstan by political mechanization. The books he had brought from home had called religion the opiate of the masses, but Vulich had been raised with stories of an all-seeing God. He had learned to read from the yellowing pages of the Koran, and it was his mother who had taught him, inadvertently, the power of oration, when she had told him the apocryphal stories in a voice that never halted or wavered.

And so that word – opiate – had always confused him. He had been raised with religion, and it had never brought him comfort. It had never extinguished the burning wanderlust that had led him, at fifteen, away from that little mining town where he had been born.

These days, he thought of God as having many meanings. Some men must have been crippled and blinded by Him, because that was what he had read. Some men lived in fear of Him, and some men hated even acknowledging that He might exist. But some men were like he was, and they needed God only fleetingly. The way that, on mornings like this, he needed a cigarette.

The snow was falling harder now, over Groznyj Grad and courtyards surrounding it. Falling on the winding mountain road and on the valley below. Soon, Vulich thought, snow would be falling all over Russia. Silent and slow, it would cover Lenin's Tomb in Moscow. It would cover the graves in Leningrad, and the settlements along the Lena River far to the north.

For a moment, Vulich was reminded of home, that little mud brick house across the Kazakh border. Even in the dead of winter, snow almost never fell on his father's house. Even on the coldest days, the sun burned bright and without warmth overhead, like a dying star.

Vulich sighed, turning his collar up against the chill. He would go in soon, he told himself. Just one circuit around the perimeter and he would go in. But as he turned he saw the flutter of a brown coat caught by a gust of wind, unmistakable against the snow, and the Lieutenant felt something inside him tighten, like a fist.

"Shalashaska!" The name was on his lips before Vulich could think whether it was a good idea or not. Ocelot was moving away from him, across the courtyard. His back was to Vulich, but he must have heard his name, because he hesitated.

Vulich started toward him, his boots cutting deep shadows into the fallen snow.

Ocelot turned to meet him. "What do you want, Lieutenant?"

Vulich shook his head. His hair was wet from the snow, and it stuck to his temples and the sides of his throat. "Don't act so impatient. You don't have any important business this morning."

"What makes you say that?"

"You've already taken care of what you had to do, haven't you?"

Ocelot laughed. "What are you talking about?"

"What were you doing in the western wing?"

"Were you following me, Lieutenant?" Ocelot didn't laugh again, but now he seemed even more amused. "That's very good. I didn't know you had the savvy."

"Answer me!"

Ocelot shook his head. "To be honest, Lieutenant, I had dismissed you as stupid."

"I'll speak with the commander of the base."

"Well… maybe you're not all that bright after all." Ocelot clapped him on the shoulder, crossing his right hand over to Vulich's left side. "But you're sly, aren't you? Remember that, Lieutenant, and you might live a while longer."

Vulich clenched his jaw, reeling back, out of Ocelot's reach. "Stop saying that," he hissed. "You don't frighten me, Shalashaska."

"I don't?" Ocelot shook his head. "I should."

"I know, you'd probably like me a lot better if I was afraid…"

"I wouldn't go that far. Sergei was afraid of me, you know. We were friends, but he was still afraid."

"You talk too much, Shalashaska."

"And you don't listen enough, Lieutenant."

"Not to liars," Vulich said.

"That's good," Ocelot replied. "Have you ever been to the Sahara, Lieutenant? I thought you might have; you're a well-traveled young man. If you've been there, then you've heard the voices out in the desert. When the wind blows through the dunes, it sounds just like people whispering. Even someone as lacking in imagination as you might stop and listen more closely. Sometimes, though, when you've had too much sun, you start thinking that you can hear your name. That someone you know is calling to you from just over that next hill. And if you hear it long enough, sometimes you start to believe it. So you break away from the caravan, and that's the moment, Lieutenant, when you're lost. After that, you can never go back to the way things were."

Vulich's eyes narrowed. "And that is why we must be vigilant. Ever cautious."

"That's right," Ocelot replied. "Never let your guard down. Not ever."

He turned and began to walk away, but he made it only a few steps before Vulich moved. His hand went to the pistol at his hips, and he drew it. Raised it in a smooth steel arc to point at the back of Ocelot's head.

"Shalashaska."

Ocelot turned back slowly. His hand was already on the hilt of his revolver; it had fallen there so swiftly or so silently that Vulich hadn't even noticed it move. He hadn't drawn yet, though. His fingers were very still, as though he had stopped himself at the last moment, through great effort. There was a tiny reptilian smile on his lips.

"That's a fine pistol, Lieutenant."

"Don't fucking move," Vulich hissed.

"A real antique," Ocelot continued. "World War II vintage. A Red Army officer's gun. It looks quite intimidating, but it's not really meant to be used. Must cost you a lot of time in upkeep. Water loves to seep in through the cracks, doesn't it?"

Vulich thumbed back the hammer. "What were you doing in the western wing this morning?"

"I wonder," Ocelot went on. "Where did a dirty goat farmer like you get a gun like that?"

"I'll shoot you."

"From your grandfather, perhaps? From Oleg?"

Vulich drew a sharp breath and immediately regretted it. Ocelot shouldn't have been able to surprise him anymore. "Behind that door…" he said, trying to regain his footing. But Ocelot's words were like a treacherous patch of ice hidden under the snow.

Ocelot moved his hand deliberately from the hilt of his revolver. "It's not nice to spy, Lieutenant. Especially when you'll find out the answer soon enough."

Still smiling faintly, Ocelot turned away again. Vulich watched him go, waited a long time before he lowered his gun again.


	18. Chapter 18

"Do you mind if I ask you a question, Adrian?"

"A serious question?"

"Kind of. I think… medium-serious?"

"You sound more than medium-serious about it."

"Never mind. I shouldn't have brought it up."

"Just ask your question already. I won't get angry."

"Fine."

Raiden folded his arms and turned to look out at the scenery. In the valley below them, a river snaked through the trees. He caught glimpses of it through breaks in the tangled grass and dandelions that grew along the side of the road. The sun gleamed off the water and reminded him of a vein of silver cutting the wall of a mineshaft.

A road sign shimmered on the horizon, but he couldn't read it.

And without looking back at Vamp, he said, "It's just that I'm curious. About you and Fortune."

"That is a serious question," Vamp said, and his gloved hands shifted slightly on the steering wheel.

"Yeah?" Raiden lowered his eyes. "Then I'm sorry. Forget I asked."

"No, it's all right. What do you want to know?"

"What was she to you? You two… were pretty close, right? But I couldn't figure it out."

Vamp shrugged. "I loved her."

"So she was like a girlfriend."

"I suppose, though we never exactly made each other any promises. It was more complicated than that. Simpler, too, in some ways."

Raiden shook his head. "How complicated could it have been?"

"As complicated as two people can be," Vamp said. "I might ask you the same question about Solid Snake."

"Right…"

Raiden fidgeted with his seatbelt. Fidgeted with the buttons of his coat. Fidgeted with the radio dial, and found nothing but static.

He sighed. "But it wouldn't be the same," he said at last. "Snake and I are just friends. Like, war buddies. There's nothing complicated about it."

Vamp's expression didn't change. He didn't look away from the unfurling road. "I'm sure that's exactly what he'd say about you if I asked him."

"Yeah. Why wouldn't he?"

"But that's not all he is to you. He's more than that."

Raiden straightened. "What are you talking about?"

Vamp only shrugged. "I know that you admire him. That you respect him enough that it makes you proud to hear his words come out of your mouth. You call yourself his friend because that's exactly what he wants you to be. Nothing more than that, and nothing less."

"Since when do you know so much about Solid Snake?"

"Since the first time I met him. I know the kind of man he is. He draws people in, and no one understands why."

"You got that from him in the first couple of minutes?"

"Don't sound so skeptical, Ingenue. My first impressions are usually very accurate."

Raiden looked back at Vamp. The window on the driver's side was down, and the wind feathered his black hair back. Occasionally, a strand would whip across his face, catch in the corner of his mouth or under his sunglasses.

He looked good, Raiden thought. But then, he always did.

"If you're so awesome," Raiden said, "then what was your first impression of me?"

Vamp sighed. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yeah, sure I do."

"I thought you were a pesky little brat without a complex thought in your head. I thought you were naïve and arrogant, and you were probably something of a philistine on top of that."

"What?"

"Oh," Vamp added quickly. "And I thought you probably had hideous taste in music. You have yet to prove me wrong on that account."

Raiden was silent for a while, his lips slightly parted as though waiting for words that never came. At last, he slumped back in his seat, folding his arms. "You're such an asshole."

"If you didn't want to know what I thought, then why did you ask?"

"I don't know." Raiden sighed. He felt prone beneath that question, like a butterfly in Vamp's killing jar. "I guess I just thought you'd make something up."

"That seems like a bad habit to get into."

"Yeah, I know." Raiden sighed, turning to stare out the window. He could still see the river winding lazily through the trees, but this section was dry. The earth of the bed had buckled in the heat, and he realized that the parched ground was about the same color and consistency of that psycho little dog Rose had.

"I guess I'm used to it, though," he finished quietly.

"Do you want to drive for a while?"

Raiden nodded. "Sure, I can do that. Are you tired?"

"A little," Vamp said.

"I woke up last night, and you weren't in the room."

"I couldn't sleep. I just took a walk."

"Scared the shit out of me, you know."

"My apologies."

Raiden glanced over at him, a bit startled. He had expected Vamp's voice to sound softly amused, had expected that quiet half-laughter that sometimes lurked under his words when he spoke, but he sounded genuine, though a little bit weary.

Vamp pulled off the road, onto a little ridge of rock overlooking the creek bed below.

"If you want," Raiden said, "You can take a nap in the back seat."

"No." Vamp shook his head. "We've got to turn off the highway up here somewhere. I don't want you to miss it."

"Doesn't this road go through to the Romanian border?"

"Through to the border, and through a series of checkpoints. All those guns under the back seat would give some poor customs official a nasty surprise if he decided to search us."

"Oh," Raiden said. "That would be a problem."

"His problem," Vamp said easily. "Not ours. But I'd still rather not deal with the mess."

Raiden looked over, but Vamp wasn't paying attention to him. It was impossible to tell whether he was serious or not.

"Oh," Raiden said again.

Vamp took the keys from the ignition and held them out. The keyring was folded over his hand; the chain was counterbalanced by a small black plastic icon of two Greek wrestlers, naked and twined together in the Classical style. Leta had put it there, probably bought it at the last minute on a whim in one of those little souvenir stores back in Athens.

It felt like they were a long way from Greece now. It seemed to him that it had been years since he had woken to the sound of the sea…

Raiden flipped the keychain into his hand and climbed out of the Jeep.

It hadn't been long at all, he reminded himself. Only a day and change, and they had three more days ahead of them.

Raiden climbed in on the driver's side. He reached down and adjusted the seat forward, then glanced up and adjusted the mirrors.

"You're not that much smaller than me, are you?" Vamp said.

Raiden glanced over. "No, I'm not. I don't know how you drive like this."

Vamp laughed, that quiet infuriating little laugh that Raiden had expected – had almost missed when it hadn't come – a few minutes ago. "I guess I'm not as rigid as you, Ingenue."

Raiden snorted as he pulled the Jeep off the shoulder and back onto the road. "Adrian, if you don't stop calling me that, I'm going to make sure I hit every fucking pothole from here to Bucharest."

There was a moment of vindicating silence as the Jeep picked up speed, but then Vamp began to laugh. Only it wasn't the humorless mocking laughter of a moment ago; this was a laugh of genuine amusement.

Startled, Raiden glanced over. Vamp had rested one elbow on the ledge beneath the window; crooked so he could rest his chin on his hand. He was watching Raiden with sharp –eyed intensity, as though he were a particularly interesting specimen, an artifact of a newly discovered civilization.

"You don't take compliments very well, do you?"

"Adrian!" Raiden turned away sharply, a blush slithering across his cheeks. "I'm going to crash this fucking car. Do you want me to drive off the road?"

Vamp laughed again. "There's no need for that."

He pointed. "Turn off the highway up here on the left."

"What?"

"Cut through the trees. We'll cross the border out of sight of the road."

"Oh, right." At the crest of the hill, Raiden glanced down into the valley below. The ribbon of highway sloped down, cutting between the trees. At the very lowest point, it ran parallel to the dry creek bed. One pale thread and one dark, stretched taut between two spools.

There was no one coming.

Raiden guided the Jeep off the road, over the little ridge of earth and into the forest.

"Go about a hundred yards," Vamp said. "Then head north again."

"Right."

The ground grew more uneven beneath them, and there was a low growl beneath the Jeep's hood as the automatic 4-wheel drive kicked in.

"Are you sure about this?" Raiden asked.

"Just don't get stuck."

"I can't really see too well…"

"Just don't get stuck."

"Yes, sir," Raiden muttered.

Vamp raised an eyebrow. "What was that?"

"I said, yes, sir."

"Do you want me to give you orders now, Ingenue?"

Raiden shook his head. "Don't be a freak, Adrian."

"Do you want me to be your commanding officer? I can, if you like. I can be anything you want me to be."

"You're nuts," Raiden said. "I didn't even mean to say 'sir'. I didn't even mean to call you that."

"Nothing is accidental."

"If you say so…"

The Jeep rolled over a deep rut in the forest floor, and they both braced themselves against the inside of the cab. They had both moved at the same time, Raiden realized; an instant before the Jeep had hit.

"May I tell you a story?" Vamp asked.

"Sure. I guess."

Vamp was quiet for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Branches slapped the front windshield with dull, flat smacks.

"You know, I never met anyone who knew Solidus when he was young…"

"Hey, wait." Raiden shook his head. "I didn't say you could tell me a story about him."

"You don't want to hear it?"

"I already know plenty about that bastard."

"You don't know this," Vamp said.

Raiden sighed. "If you say so…"

"No one knew Solidus when he was a child. By the time I met him, there was already gray hair at his temples, and it was as though he'd been the same age forever. If God created the universe to be eternally in motion, then he created that man to balance out the chaos and to be eternally static."

Raiden shifted a little in his seat, uncomfortable. "I… don't like talking about Solidus, you know."

"He told me a story once," Vamp said. "I remember it well because it was the only time he ever talked to me about the past. It was right before I went into the Special Forces; I hadn't seen him in a year, and he showed up at my apartment with a bottle of decent scotch. He had a key. He shouldn't have, but it didn't surprise me that he did. He let himself in, and helped himself to the glasses in the kitchen."

"What did he want?" Raiden asked hesitantly.

"I'll spare you the details."

"Oh," Raiden said quietly. "Sorry for asking."

"No, it's all right. But that's not what's important."

"I'm listening," Raiden said.

Vamp nodded faintly. "I remember that he didn't call me Adrian. I don't know exactly when, but at some point, he had started using Vamp instead. It sounded right coming from him. He told me… when he was a boy, he used to play with those little plastic army toys."

Like… GI Joes, right?" Raiden asked. He had never had any toys like that while he was growing up, and by the time he made it to America, he was too old for them. He knew of them only by reputation, but it was something a man his age was supposed to know. That was the kind of memory from childhood he and Vamp should have shared; it should have been Solidus' name that sounded and alien to them. A word without any tactile meaning attached to it.

Neither of them had ever had much of a chance at being normal.

"He told me," Vamp went on, "that he remembered one thing very clearly. He said he was alone a lot, that there weren't any other children around. So when he played, he'd hold his hands flat and put a plastic toy between each of his fingers. That way he could hold eight of them at a time, and it was like having control of a whole battalion. He said that the people who took care of him were pleased that he'd thought of it; more pleased than it seemed they should have been. They were even pleased when he was too rough, when he broke the arms off his toys, or the heads. When he pulled them apart and left their limbs scattered around the room. He said that when he broke one, it was replaced with a new one almost immediately, and he never saw the broken toy again."

Raiden was quiet for a moment after Vamp had finished speaking, and he shifted his grip nervously on the steering wheel.

"And?" he said at last. "So what?"

"I'm sorry," Vamp replied. "I know you don't want to hear about him. But it was important, what he was trying to tell me. I thought you ought to know, too."

Raiden shook his head. "Well, I don't get it. If it's about him, then I don't want to get it."

"No?"

"No."

Vamp turned away. He seemed disappointed. "Well, maybe it'll seem important someday."


	19. Chapter 19

He came upon Novikov in one of the corners of the laboratory; alone and mostly shielded from view. He was bent over one of the computer terminals, hands planted on the desk in front of himself. The doctor's back was to him, but Ocelot knew that Novikov was already aware of his presence.

Light from the monitor played across Novikov's arms, a strange dance of black and white that caught in his hair and the folds of his lab coat and cast strange shifting shadows over the laboratory floor. The motion stopped abruptly, and for a long moment Novikov was as still as the image frozen on the screen. When he did move, it was only to lift one hand, tilt his fingers languidly toward the keyboard.

The monitor faded to black, but a moment later winked back to life. The same pattern of light and shadow drifted again over the desktop, spilling down onto the carpet.

Rewind and replay, Ocelot thought. He wished he was close enough, to see what had Novikov so captivated.

He moved closer, trying to strafe around to Novikov's side, but as he drew near the doctor lifted his head.

"Ah, Shalashaska. You've returned," Novikov said, turning back to face him. "You're just in time."

"I didn't come to see you."

"But I knew all the same that you would come."

"And how is that, Doctor?"

"Because you have nowhere else to go."

"I admit, Doctor, you know me too well."

"Me?" Novikov said innocently. "Don't overestimate me. I don't know everything."

"What a refreshing dose of humility."

Novikov raise a hand. "Come closer. I want to show you something."

"What is it?"

"I just have a question."

He stepped aside to make room for Ocelot at the computer terminal.

"What's this?"

"The security tape from this morning." Novikov's hand darted over the keyboard, moving through the light from the screen like a fish flashing to the surface of a pond.

The image went dark.

Ocelot raised an eyebrow. "Is this what you've been doing since this morning? Watching this? Are you paranoid, Doctor, or just bored?"

Novikov laughed with good humor. "You misunderstand. I'm like the Buddha, Shalashaska, fast asleep on the sea of eternity. I cannot leave this place; I can only watch the screens. But I like to feel like I'm involved. Besides, Kesha alerted me to something interesting."

"We shall see about that," Ocelot said.

Novikov's hand ghosted again over the keyboard, and the monitor lit to life. The screen was filled with the image of Groznyj Grad's western wing, the corridor that ran directly above their heads. The elevator door was framed in the center. The picture wasn't jagged around the edges or fragmented by static, but it was washed of color, pale as a pre-dawn sky.

"This was taken a bit before six this morning," Novikov said.

As Ocelot watched, a figure drifted across the screen. There was an instant when he didn't recognize it as himself. He watched as that colorless mirror image moved through the actions of six hours ago. Now, he felt none of the desolation and none of the urgency he had felt then, and he felt no connection to this man, who stepped now into the elevator and shut the door against the unblinking eye of the security camera.

"You already know I was here this morning," Ocelot said. "Is this supposed to surprise me."

"Patience," Novikov said.

And as Ocelot watched, another figure drifted into the frame. His back was to the security camera, and he was only a tangle of unkempt hair above an immaculate, spotless uniform.

Ocelot recognized him at once.

"That snake," he murmured.

"Ah, so you do know him," Novikov said. "I admit, I was curious."

"His name's Vulich," Ocelot said. "And he's no one you need to worry about."

"Vulich…" Novikov echoed. The name seemed to taste strange to him. "He's not at all what I had expected."

On the screen, the Lieutenant, having tried the elevator door and found it unyielding, turned away and swept his gaze over the length of the hallway. For a moment, his face was half-turned towards camera.

Novikov's hand moved again, and the image froze.

Vulich's jaw was set, his steely gaze fixed on some point far beyond the edge of the screen. Just like an icon, Ocelot thought; head thrown back, expression locked in an eternal stare of unebbing defiance. Like something straight from an old Soviet propaganda poster.

Only that wasn't quite true. That wasn't why he seemed suddenly so familiar. There was something else in that gunslinger stare, something Ocelot couldn't quite put a name to.

"Do you know him?" Ocelot asked.

"I admit, I've heard the name around. Captain of the Gurlukovich troops, yes? I had expected someone older."

"I assure you, he won't be captain for much longer."

"It is an inopportune time to be an idealist," Novikov said. "I wouldn't attempt it myself. The climate is very hostile, if I understand correctly."

"You know a lot about him, Doctor."

"Only what I read in his file. I find such things woefully inadequate."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Ocelot said. "You seem to be under the impression that the Lieutenant is a complex man."

"Isn't he?"

"Not in the least," Ocelot replied confidently.

"What a pity," Novikov said. "But if that's the case, then you won't mind telling me about him, will you?"

"Are you worried about him?" Ocelot shook his head. "He's just another gun for hire. Nothing but a security guard."

"Don't sound so defensive, Shalashaska."

"You're being ridiculous."

Novikov laughed coolly. "I'm only asking a question. Why's he leading the Gurlukovich troops?"

"Money," Ocelot said easily. "Even revolutionaries need to eat."

"And yet, he gives away everything he earns." Novikov smiled coldly. "It's terribly romantic, don't you think?"

"Or utterly futile," Ocelot muttered. "One man can't change the world."

"Of course. That's what makes it so perfect. Mono no aware, and all that." Novikov waved his hand dismissively. "It's not important. Is he a fighter, then?"

"He can fight," Ocelot said. He glanced over at Novikov, but the man's expression betrayed none of his true intent.

Ocelot had begun to grow accustomed to Novikov's aloofness and distance, and was beginning to think that the doctor was not nearly as complicated as he had first seemed. This was different, though. There was real interest behind Novikov's questions. He was slowly, methodically, drawing out information; slowly, methodically, piecing it together.

And he was not coming to the conclusions that Ocelot would have preferred.

"You must have more to say than that," Novikov said. "Tell me, is he a soldier? A warrior? Whatever you battle-hardened types want to call it."

Ocelot sighed. "One day, he could be. He has the skill and the determination, and the right kind of luck. But he doesn't have the discipline, and he never did learn how to take orders. Which makes him a very poor soldier indeed. There are a lot of variables, Doctor. It's probably difficult for a civilian to understand."

"I see." Novikov's gaze was fixed on the monitor; never once had he looked in Ocelot's direction. He didn't seem to have heard much of what he had just said. "I assume you knew that he followed you this morning."

"It doesn't matter. He has no idea that this place exists."

"So you didn't know?"

Ocelot glanced away to hide the tug of annoyance at the corner of his lips. "Not at the time, no. But he approached me earlier."

"Doesn't have much of a poker face, does he?"

"I told you," Ocelot said. "He's not very smart."

"No," Novikov murmured. His eyes narrowed slightly, and the light of the monitor sent strange shadows slanting across his face, like a premonition of death. "He doesn't look it."

He lifted one hand. The image on the monitor was small enough that when Novikov brushed the tips of two fingers over the proud tilt of Vulich's jaw he almost blotted out the Lieutenant's face entirely.

The glass smeared slightly with the heat of his hand.

"You're planning something for him already, aren't you?" Novikov said. His voice was quiet, hoarse. Nearly a whisper. And Ocelot's first impulse was to lean closer.

"Nothing," he lied. "I haven't spared him much attention."

"Good. I want you to leave him to me, Shalashaska."

"I can't imagine what you'd want from him." Ocelot laughed, and it sounded convincing enough. "He's just a kid. A real brat, actually."

Novikov's lips twisted into a bemused smile. His hand curled into a fist, and he brought it down hard on the keyboard, rattling the tabletop.

The monitor went dark.

"I'm going to look up his file again," Novikov said quietly. "I think I'd very much like to get to know him a little better."

"It's a waste of time, Doctor."

Novikov slowly lifted his eyes from the computer terminal, blinking as though he had emerged from darkness into harsh light. "Shalashaska?"

"Yes?"

"You can go see to some of that combat data, can't you? I'll find you if I have any more questions."

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn't see Novikov for some time after that. The doctor disappeared into his office, shut the door behind himself and drew the blinds. Whatever he was doing in there, Ocelot was sure he didn't want to know the details.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that he already did.

He turned his attention to his work instead, focusing on it with unwavering determination, until the world began and ended with the computer in front of him and the strings of data that scrolled across its screen. He had to remain detached. He couldn't let himself be drawn into the battles he surveyed, or else the setting would change. He would no longer be in Liberia or Yugoslavia, Rwanda or Baghdad or Chechnya. He would be pulled back to the humid forests of Afghanistan. To the jungle, as it had been fifty years ago.

And he would fight it again, that one battle that would always be with him. The one that had always mattered the most.

He lifted his eyes, blinking away the spots that hovered before them from staring at the computer screen for too long. And his eyes were drawn, unwillingly, to Novikov's closed door.

They weren't so dissimilar, Ocelot thought. He and the doctor had both been raised apart from men, groomed for a life of service. Their growth directed and the trajectory of their lives set before they had even learned to walk.

If that meant Novikov was even half as confused and frustrated now as Ocelot had been back then, Ocelot was glad for it.

Languidly, he savored the feeling of vindication, and languidly, his thoughts turned to memories of those sticky, rain soaked days in the jungle. Ocelot had never had the luxury of a private office; back then, some time alone meant waiting for an opportunity to slip away from his men and into the deeper jungle.

He remembered how worried he'd been, how certain that his expression betrayed everything he was thinking.

"Shalashaska?"

He tensed. The voice was soft, but it intruded on his memories, severing him from them like a knife.

A hand touched his elbow, small child's fingers curled in the ridges of his coat.

Innokenty pushed up on his toes, so he could peer over Ocelot's arm at the computer monitor. "What're you doing?"

"Kid…" Ocelot sighed, moving his arm so Innokenty could see. "Just a little work."

Innokenty giggled. "It didn't look like work to me."

"No?" Ocelot said. "Then what?"

"Like you were thinking about something." He lifted his gaze to Ocelot's face, his eyes were wide and unblinking. If the light were different, Ocelot thought, he would almost be able to read the strings of computer data reflected in them.

"I was," Ocelot said. "I was thinking about work."

"Oh." Innokenty smiled wistfully. "When I'm working, Dr. Novikov says I shouldn't think about anything. It could corrupt the data. That's pretty hard, though."

"I can imagine."

Innokenty reached out, tapping one finger on the computer screen. "I like this one, don't you? It's one of my favorites."

"I don't know what you mean," Ocelot said.

"No?" Innokenty seemed disappointed. "But you were there, weren't you? At the Big Shell?"

Ocelot scrolled through the lines of data that painted the screen, up to the top of the file. The date, almost four years ago now. Ocelot hadn't known it at first, but he did now.

"I was there," he said.

"Yeah, I know." Innokenty nodded enthusiastically. "You were pretty amazing. My favorite part is at the end… Do you know what I mean?"

"Remind me again. There's a lot about the Big Shell I don't remember." It wasn't a lie. He had not, after all, been himself the entire time.

"The part where you stole Metal Gear RAY, of course." Innokenty smiled. "Everybody was really surprised. You even surprised me the first time. But when I asked Matryona, she said she wasn't surprised at all…"

"Kid," Ocelot said wearily. "You make it sound like something you saw on television."

Innokenty shrugged. "I'm not allowed to watch TV. Dr. Novikov says it'll rot my brain even faster than candy."

"I see."

"But, you know, there was one part I didn't like very much."

"What part was that?"

"I guess I just don't understand why Olga would let Solidus kill her like that. She could have gotten away safe. She didn't have to risk her life. I thought it was a pretty dumb thing to do." Innokenty laughed, and the sound was soft and guileless. "Don't you, sir?"

"I don't know," Ocelot said. "I don't remember what I thought at the time."

"I know," Innokenty said easily, "that she was my mom. Matryona told me that. But, you know, she never even knew me. I don't know why she would do anything to try to protect me."

"I don't know either. But maybe you ought to at least try to be grateful. It's not often that someone saves your life without wanting anything in return."

"I know. And I've tried. But she's only in a few of the files that I've seen, and I hardly know her at all."

He turned his eyes up to Ocelot again, and smiled. "Not like I know you, Shalashaska."

"You don't know me."

"I do, though. I know everything about you. Even back when you were in the Ocelot unit. Those files are so old that we're not supposed to use them to program Matryona. Dr. Novikov says they're full of obsolete techniques. But I like them anyway. I feel like I learned a lot from you, Shalashaska."

"Innokenty…" Ocelot began, but he never got any further. It was too late, he thought, to say anything to this boy. Too late to do anything, because the trajectory of his destiny had already been decided. They all had to live with what they had been given. Innokenty understood that as well as anyone, and better than most.

He smiled up at Ocelot. A strange, quizzical smile.

"I should go now, Shalashaska. Dr. Novikov wants me to rest when I'm not working for him. He says it's the only way I'll get better. I only left my room because Matryona said you were here."

"Did you need something from me?"

Innokenty shook his head. "Not really. I just wanted to talk to you for a while. That's okay, right? If we talk sometimes?"

"It's fine," Ocelot said.

"Good." Innokenty's smile didn't fade as he backed off a step. He hesitated a moment before turning to go.

"Next time, read some of the book I gave you and we can talk about that."


	20. Chapter 20

When the wind was right, he could hear singing.

It was a woman's voice. Clear at first, then sinking like a drowning victim beneath waves of static.

It was strange to hear the radio on base. Groznyj Grad was a long way from the nearest city, wedged amongst the mountains. But sometimes, when the night was clear enough, the engineers were able to pull in a broadcast from Sheberghan. It was never anything more than a pre-recorded program from Moscow: the news was a few weeks old, the speeches already dated, and yet it drew people like moths. Those hardened soldiers, silent and reverent, entranced by that thin tether to the outside world.

Ocelot left the base through one of the second floor exits, onto an outdoor landing. A flight of stairs trailed down the side of the building to the courtyard below, where perhaps a dozen soldiers had clustered, wrapped in their greatcoats and scarves, around a tinny, hollow-sounding radio.

He could see them all. He could call them by name and by rank. And yet, if kept silent, they would never notice him there above them.

So Ocelot stayed still for a while, trying to remember the name of the song spilling out of the radio.

It was something old; traditional. Not an opera, not a protest song. From this distance, he couldn't even be sure that the language was Russian, but he listened patiently as the singer's voice rose and receded.

Listened, until all at once it was gone completely.

For a few moments, there was static, and then nothing at all.

Ocelot was quiet for a while, but the music didn't resume. The signal was lost behind a low-hanging cloud, or just vanished into the maze of mountain peaks.

After a while, the soldiers gave up waiting for it to return. They rose, slow and stiff, to return to the base. Their shadows moved wetly over the pavement, black and indistinct. It made Ocelot think of a story he had heard about a cave, and a parade of shadows painted on the wall, and a long trek upward to the truth.

He watched them go. Not one looked up to see him there.

When they had left and he was alone, Ocelot breathed a sigh. A frozen white cloud drifted up from his lips, forming, for an instant, a luminescent halo before trailing off into the night sky. The cigarette in his hand had smoldered down to nothing. When he shifted his grip, it dissolved into a handful of ash.

He straightened up slowly, but didn't turn immediately to go. The ice burned through the soles of his boots, but something held him rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on an intangible spot in the distance, a thousand miles away.

Then, in the darkness beyond the white ring of the floodlights, something moved over the pavement. Something fluttered like wings.

It was only there for an instant, and then gone, but Ocelot had never doubted his eyes before. And he was sure, now, of what he had seen. He kept his gaze focused on the spot where it had vanished as he descended the icy stairs, cat-sure and unafraid. By the time he reached the tarmac, he could make out a faint figure at the far end of the courtyard, bent slightly at the waist and leaning a little, like a drunk, against one of the steel shipping crates.

His back was to Ocelot, but the ghostly whiteness of his hair betrayed his identity.

Ocelot slowed his steps, quieted his breath and made his approach silent. He didn't speak until he was almost close enough to touch.

"It's late, Major."

"Adamska…"

Raikov gasped, drew a breath so sharp that it must have seared his throat with cold.

It was nice to see him startled, Ocelot thought. It was nice, to have some measure of revenge.

Raikov started to straighten, but then sank back, wrapping an arm around his ribs and bowing over it. His fingers clutched in the stiff fabric of his uniform, making it twist and pull strangely around his body.

Ocelot pushed his lips tight in distaste.

"What's wrong?"

"Leave me alone," Raikov whispered.

"You want me to leave you alone? You change your tune awfully fast, Major."

Raikov shook his head fiercely. He'd lost his hat somewhere, and his hair was loose and uncombed. "Leave me alone!"

Ocelot was quiet for a moment. His expression didn't change, but his voice softened a little.

"Tell me what's wrong."

"Why?"

Raikov turned slowly, putting his back against the shipping crate. His eyes half-strayed to Ocelot's face, and then darted away. He had not been quick enough that the shadows didn't shift over his features, not quick enough to hide the lattice of bruises stamped across his cheek, the scum of dried blood under his nose.

Ocelot pretended not to notice.

"What do you mean, why?"

"Ocelot… Adamska… It's not good for business, for you to know everything."

He pulled away; wavered a little, as though trying to keep his balance on an uneven plane.

Ocelot stepped after him, but not to steady him. He caught Raikov by the wrist, holding him back.

Raikov shuddered in his grip, but didn't make a sound.

"I thought you could handle this, Major."

"Let go…"

He pulled on his trapped arm, and Ocelot jerked him back. He stumbled, shoulder blades hitting Ocelot's chest.

He turned, slippery as a weasel, but Ocelot's other hand was already on his combat knife. Steel whispered against steel as he drew it, lifted it to press the curved blade against Raikov's throat.

"You said you could handle it."

"You're a fucking psycho," Raikov hissed.

"If you can't do your job, Major, then you're just a liability."

When Raikov didn't answer right away, Ocelot tightened his grip, pulling him closer. He could feel his heart beating through his clothes, quick and staccato.

Raikov only reached up, setting a hand over Ocelot's and pushing the knife carelessly away.

"You don't have to be so theatrical, Adam. Of course I'm holding up my end."

He turned slowly, leaning into Ocelot's arms. Though a moment ago, his grip had been so tight that Raikov couldn't have slipped away, when he moved closer, Ocelot let him do so freely. Let him wind sinuously against him.

"You don't need a knife to frighten me, Adamska." His gaze was low, focused on the row of medals on Ocelot's chest. "Don't bother apologizing."

Ocelot narrowed his eyes, slipping his knife back into its sheathe. "I don't have anything to apologize for."

"Maybe not."

But he took Ocelot's hand, lifting it to the side of his face. Forcing Ocelot to force his chin up.

His cheek was swollen, warm and soft to the touch. There was a ring of blotchy purple under his left eye, like smeared makeup and a crescent moon of blood around his nostrils. Blood caked into the corners of his mouth and dripped onto his collar.

"You look like shit," Ocelot said.

"You left a hell of a bruise," Raikov murmured. "It's this one, right here."

He guided Ocelot's fingers. "You can't really see it anymore."

"Maybe you deserved it," Ocelot said.

Raikov laughed softly. "Maybe. I don't really mind when you hit me, Adam. I know they're just love taps. But Volgin… he doesn't like it. He gets jealous sometimes."

"He did this?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"What if he kills you?"

"He won't," Raikov whispered. "I just fell down some stairs."

"What if you talk?"

"Those damn stairs."

Ocelot pulled away. "Just be careful."

"Wait."

Raikov stepped after him, catching him by the arm. "Take me back to my room."

Ocelot shook his head. "Stop it. This game is boring…"

"You hurt me pretty bad, you know. Just walk with me."

"To make sure you don't fall down anymore stairs, right?"

"Yeah."

"I don't understand you at all," Ocelot said quietly.

"It's all right," Raikov murmured. "You don't have to."

But he didn't move, didn't turn away. Didn't even lower his gaze from Ocelot's face. Even in the darkness, with the shadows so deep that Ocelot couldn't make out his eyes, he knew Raikov's expression was guarded but expectant.

"Come on," Ocelot said at last. "I'll get you cleaned up."

Beneath the harsh fluorescent lights that illuminated Raikov's quarters, the bruises stamped across his face were less ghastly than Ocelot had first thought. One of his eyes was puffy, one of his cheeks streaked black and blue; his lip was swollen around a bloodless gash.

"It's not so bad," Ocelot remarked casually. The shadows and his own imagination had filled the gaps.

"That's nice of you to say."

Raikov brushed his hair back, tucking it behind his ears.

Ocelot glanced away.

Raikov's room was little more than a closet. A bed, a desk, a little mirror on the wall. It was hard to find a place to stand where they weren't close enough to touch.

Ocelot swallowed the knot in his throat.

"You have this whole place to yourself?"

"Most of the time," Raikov said. "Are you impressed?"

"I suppose you earned it."

Raikov laughed, and the cut on his lower lip split wide. A bubble of bright blood welled, then burst, trickling over his chin. It took him a moment to notice. The humor faded from his eyes first, long before the smile dropped from his lips.

"You're not fooling anyone, you know," Ocelot said. He stepped close, loosening one end of his cravat to dab at the stain on Raikov's chin.

"Don't do that," Raikov said, turning away. "It'll stain."

"It won't show."

He waited for Raikov to look back at him. Tilting his face up so Ocelot could see him better.

"This didn't have to happen," Ocelot said.

"Yes, it did."

"He's going to be suspicious now. He's going to be watching us."

"No. Not him. We're exonerated now, Adam. He thinks he's taught me a lesson. He thinks… I'll never go near you again."

Ocelot paused, and slowly drew his hand back.

"Let's not push our luck, then."

Raikov shook his head. "You know what they say, right? You remember the first thing they teach us? It's okay to cry, as long as you don't mean it. It's okay to be weak, as long as you don't mean it."

He stepped forward, hands lifting between them, hovering like ghosts before falling against Ocelot's shoulders. They moved together, a single reeling step that put Ocelot's back against the wall.

"It's okay to fall in love," Raikov said. "As long as you don't mean it."

He didn't move, when Raikov leaned in to kiss him hungrily.

Ocelot gasped, turned his head in an abortive attempt to pull away. "This is stupid."

"This is war."

Raikov kissed him again, sucking at his lips. Sharp ivory cut his mouth, almost hard enough to break the skin.

When he pulled away, Ocelot tasted blood, but it wasn't his own.

Raikov cocked a hand on his hip. He rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth, turned his head a spat out a gob of blood. "I'm not bad looking, am I?"

"I'm not answering that."

"I bet you're fun at parties, Adamaska."

"If you're looking for somebody fashionable…"

Raikov cut him off with a shake of his head, tossing his hair with a jerk like hands shucking the silk from corn. "That's not what I want."

He set a hand on Ocelot's crotch, the spot below his polished belt buckle where the fabric bowed out slightly and then curved back between his legs. Ocelot reached to slap his hand away, but Raikov only tightened his grip. Not enough to hurt, just enough to give him a twinge.

"I outrank you, you know," Raikov said casually.

Ocelot glanced away. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"

"No."

His boots squeaked on the tile as he knelt down, but his hands made no sound when they flicked open the buckle of Ocelot's belt.

"I just think it's funny," he whispered.

"I'm not laughing."

Raikov's hands moved over the buttons of his pants, flaying the fabric back like the skin of an animal. His fingers were cool and careful. His nails were neither too long nor too short, not bitten down and ragged, but neatly filed. His palms were smooth like a stone from a waterless riverbed. "Neither am I."

His touch was cold, but his breath was hot as hell. Heavy, like the air down in the jungle. The thick humidity that clung to the skin right before it rained.

"Get on with it," Ocelot said. He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. "Fucker."

Raikov's laughter was lost against his skin.

His mouth was a hot sheath; a moving, living, pulsing cavern like a chamber of a heart.

Ocelot kept his eyes closed. He couldn't focus on him completely. He had to think about him slant, off center, like watching a solar eclipse. Raikov's head barely moved at all. His tongue and lips and the ring of muscle at the back of his throat. Everything that mattered happened under the surface.

Ocelot pressed a hand on the back of Raikov's neck. His fingers curled in golden hair, pulling it in petulant revenge.

***

Raikov sat on the edge of the bed with his legs crossed at the knee. His faced was flushed, the bruises dark as slabs of raw meat.

Ocelot didn't look at him. Instead, his eyes strayed to the little mirror on the wall. There was a streak of crimson seared across the bridge of his nose. He scrubbed at it with a gloved hand, as though it could be wiped away.

"You're beautiful," Raikov said.

His hair was untidy and his uniform was disheveled, but he hadn't made a move to look at his own reflection yet. Ocelot had always assumed the mirror was for Raikov's benefit, but it might have been just another temptation.

"I haven't seen my own face in a long time," Ocelot said. "The mirrors in the barracks get broken as fast as they replace them."

"Bunch of Gorgons," Raikov murmured.

He stretched out on his side, and one of his cool, pale hands disappeared beneath the pillow. "They'll turn you to stone."

"What are you talking about?"

"What I mean to say is, you can come here anytime you want, Adamska."

Ocelot's eyes narrowed. In the mirror, he saw tiny lines appear at their corners, saw straw-hued lashes pinch together to obscure his irises. Blue eyes, he thought. He had always known that, but he had forgotten how to picture the exact shade in his mind.

"No," he said. "I don't think I will, Major."

The door was only a step away. He had his hand on it before Raikov raised his voice to call him back.

"Adamska."

He turned. Raikov's hand slid from beneath the pillow, curled now around a small package. He tossed it in a slow arc.

Ocelot caught it, one handed. He put it in his pocket without looking at the brand.

"I still have cigarettes, you know."

Raikov shrugged. "Keep it. I never touch the things. They'll kill you, you know."


	21. Chapter 21

Vamp's belt was slung over the back of the driver's seat. It was a thick leather strap studded with small cross-shaped knives, each one silver and gleaming, new and still untested.

They had stopped a few miles back so Raiden could duck into the bushes to piss. He had only been gone a few minutes, but when he had returned, Vamp had dug the belt out from under the back seat and set it within reach, like it had been there all along.

He had said nothing, but he hadn't let the knives out of his sight since.

Every time the Jeep hit a bump in the road, the little silver hilts knocked restlessly against the console between the seats. The harder Raiden tried to ignore them, the more aware he was of their presence there.

He sighed, and reached down to still them.

"Where are we?"

"In the mountains."

They had crossed the border early that morning, passed through Bucharest around noon, and they had been ascending ever since. Close to the city, there had been a few signs in French or German, but those had phased out as they drifted further into the countryside.

Raiden had watched Vamp's eyes flick over the foreign road signs as they passed them, but when Raiden asked what they said, Vamp only looked away and said he didn't know.

Vamp shrugged. "Check the map."

"Look, if I don't know where we are, I can't figure out where we're going."

"We'll get there," Vamp said. "We're close now."

His voice was tense, and Raiden glanced up. "You know this area?"

Vamp was quiet a moment, then he shook his head. "No. I told you, I don't remember anything about this place."

"Look, I'm not trying to be an asshole or anything…"

"Then what are you trying to do?"

Raiden shrugged."Nothing," he said. "Nothing, I guess. Sorry."

Vamp's jaw tightened. His knuckles were ivory white against the steering wheel.

"Do you want me to drive?" Raiden asked. "You look tired."

"If you like."

"I'd rather get it over with before it gets dark."

Without speaking, Vamp eased the Jeep over to the shoulder.

"Thanks," Raiden said. But Vamp had already climbed out, slamming the door behind him.

Raiden arched his hips and slid over the center console into the driver's seat. When he sat back, he could feel the heavy leather of Vamp's bandolier through his clothes. He could trace the shape of the knives with his skin.

"Let me have that," Vamp said.

Raiden twisted around, lifting the belt and slinging it over his arm. It was heavy. Heavier, even, then he had imagined.

"You hunting rabbits or something?"

Vamp took it from him, folding it neatly in his lap.

"Throw it in the back," Raiden said.

Vamp set a hand over the knives, tracing the curve of one silver hilt with his finger.

"I want it with me."

Raiden shrugged. "Fine. Whatever you say."

He pulled onto the blacktop and drove. The road sloped up sharply now, winding into the higher peaks. Vamp said nothing, but silence suited him. No one else, Raiden thought, could make the whole strong, silent act work for him the way Vamp did. Raiden wasn't really surprised. Anyone who could wear leather pants without a hint of irony must have known something the rest of them didn't.

Raiden had never been very good at fashion. Countless re-runs of cable makeover shows had never been able to help him, and neither had Rose's seasonal expeditions to the mall. Now that she was gone, Raiden's idea of updating his wardrobe was a new pair of black Dickies every time one of the old ones faded to gray, but even he knew that leather pants shouldn't have looked as good as Vamp made them look.

Raiden hugged the center line of the highway. The ground dropped away just beyond the right shoulder of the road, sloping sharply down into the lowlands they had left behind earlier that day.

Before them, the sky was black and uneven. Behind them, it was sickly gray.

"I'm sorry," Raiden said abruptly.

"For what?"

"You're not upset?"

"Why would I be?"

"Good," Raiden said, and he eased the Jeep over onto the side of the road. He tapped the dash, where a red light glared up at them like an angry eye.

"Because I think there's something wrong with the car."

They pulled off, and got out. A cloud of steam escaped into the cold air when they opened the hood.

"What do you know about cars?"

Raiden shrugged, and poked at some of the hoses running from what he was almost sure was the radiator.

"It stinks. Smells like something burning. Maybe we can make it into town?"

"I thought they taught you things like this in the military?"

"What about you? You can fly a jet. Can't you fix this?"

Vamp slammed the hood. "Someone will be along soon, I'm sure. We'll just wait."

"It's getting dark…"

"We have blankets."

Raiden shook his head. "I'm going to walk up the road. Maybe I'll see something."

"You shouldn't," Vamp said. But Raiden didn't reply

He walked along the shoulder of the highway. There were thunderheads on the horizon, scarred intermittently with lightning. At the top of the hill, Raiden looked back. The Jeep had disappeared behind a bend in the road, vanished into the trees. Vamp was nowhere in sight.

The road wound away from him, clinging to the side of the mountain, gliding down into the gray valley below. The air was streaked and hazy; down there, it was already raining. As Raiden watched, a few lights flickered on.

This far from the cities, some of the smaller enclaves didn't have centralized power. Tired of waiting for the government to make good on its promise to bring electricity to the area, the businesses that could afford it bought generators.

Bars, sometimes a small hotel, would rattle to life after dark. Oases of light on dark ghost town streets. That was what Vamp had said, at least.

Raiden asked him how much things had changed since he was a kid, but he hadn't expected a straight answer anyway.

He watched awhile as the lights in the valley below flickered like ghosts in a swamp. He only counted three. Thunder growled overhead. It startled him, but he hardly ever flinched anymore.

Raiden looked up, and it began to rain.

His clothes were soaked through almost before he felt the cold.

He lowered his head, clutching his collar closed at his throat. His hair was already plastered to the side of his face. He didn't run, even when his steps began to sink into the mud collecting on the side of the road. Soon, he was shivering; he kept his eyes lowered to guard them from the rain.

Vamp came up the road to meet him. His coat was off and he had pulled it up over his head, bracing it with his arms. Water sheeted off it, a steady stream splashed around his feet.

"It's freezing," Raiden said as he approached.

Vamp was beside him. He crooked his arm protectively, holding the edge of the coat over Raiden's head. Raiden was wary, but he edged closer. The rain rattled on Vamp's coat like stones on a tin roof.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

He hugged himself, but it didn't make his trembling subside. Vamp braced the edge of the coat on Raiden's shoulder, freeing his hand long enough to steady him.

"There are blankets in the car."

They went back together, boots splashing in the little puddles that formed along the edge of the highway, turning the bottom of Raiden's jeans black with road grime.

Vamp unlocked the Jeep and slid into the back seat.

"Get undressed before you get in here."

"What?"

"You're soaked. It'll be warmer if you get out of those clothes."

He snatched the coat away and tossed it over the seats into the front. When he began to unbutton his shirt, Raiden looked away.

Blushing, staring out into the storm, he peeled off his tee shirt, his boots and his jeans. Vamp was already wrapped in a Gore-Tex blanket by the time Raiden turned back, sliding across the seat and slamming the door against the rain.

"Fucking asshole…"

He made a grab for the edge of the blanket, and Vamp folded it back for him. Raiden pressed against his side, folding his hands into the warm well between their bodies.

Fog covered the windows almost instantly.

Raiden curled his fingers against Vamp's ribs, and when his teeth stopped chattering enough to talk he said, "You'd better not be naked under there."

"Utterly."

"Yeah. Me too."

Vamp laughed quietly, and his arm curled around Raiden's shoulders, holding him close. "How will you survive, Ingenue?"

"Don't be a creep…"

But he didn't try to pull away. His feet and the tips of his fingers were still so cold they stung, but he felt warm now, and his shivers had dissipated. Everything about Vamp was graceful, right down to the way he breathed. He made Raiden's frozen fingers feel swollen and clumsy in comparison. He clenched his hands into fists, pressing them against Vamp's sturdy ribs.

Here, in the claustrophobic darkness, with nothing but the sound of the rain hammering on the outside of the Jeep, Raiden was tempted to let his fingers explore a little. Find out if the map of muscle and bone really beneath Vamp's skin fit together as impeccably as it seemed. But when he dropped his hand lower, to press against Vamp's hip, he was met not with soft skin, but with the unyielding roughness of leather. With the hilt of a small silver knife, pressing into his palm.

Vamp's bandolier, stretched on the seat between them like a sword.

He hooked the tip of his finger beneath the edge of the silver buckle. Tugged lightly, but Vamp would not relinquish his hold.

Raiden sighed softly. "Thanks for coming to get me."

"They say there are phantoms in these woods. You shouldn't walk alone after dark."

"You don't believe that, do you?"

Vamp shifted his grip, fingers moving along Raiden's arm, past the tattoo on his bicep. He might as well have been a ghost himself, for all the ways he knew to make him shiver.

"Relax," Vamp said. "What do you think is going to happen?"

Raiden shook his head. "There's a town you know."

"Oh?"

"Just over the hill. It's pretty small, I think, but we should be able to find someone who can give us a tow."

"Good," Vamp said. But the moment he had taken to compose himself hadn't been enough to hide the tremor in his voice.

"What's wrong?" Raiden asked.

Vamp was quiet for a few seconds, and when he spoke again, his voice was pitched low to match the pounding of the rain.

"I don't believe in ghosts, you know. I've seen a lot of things that don't make any sense, but I've never seen anything like that."

"Neither have I," Raiden said quietly.

"I used to believe in lots of things," Vamp said. "Heaven and Hell and angels. Miracles. It was the way my mother raised us. When I learned to read, it was from the pages of the Bible. Two columns running down each page, side by side. Romanian on the right, and Russian on the left. And I read Job and Abraham. Daniel and Lot…"

He trailed off then, and Raiden was very still, hardly daring to breathe.

"Yeah?" he asked quietly. Vamp liked to talk, but never about himself. Raiden wanted him to go on; he wanted to disassemble him and see him for all his component parts.

"Then," Vamp continued. "Then, for a long time, I didn't believe in anything. I just ate when I was hungry, and slept when I was tired. I killed when I felt threatened, and I fucked when I was lonely. It was uncomplicated. It wasn't a bad way to live, and I wasn't afraid of dying. I was just afraid of suffering. Fear and pain and the shift of broken bones under the skin. Tight, enclosed spaces where your eyes don't adjust to the dark, and all you can feel is your own breath on your face like a vicious animal."

"What happened to you?" Raiden said softly.

"Everything changed after my squadron died. Afterwards, I didn't wash their blood off my clothes for a long time. Fortune… she wouldn't talk to me at first. She liked to be alone a lot back then. But eventually, she took my hand and pulled me aside. She said…"

"What?" Raiden asked.

When Vamp didn't answer right away, he turned his hand, twining their fingers loosely together beneath the blanket. "What was it?"

"She said… 'Don't leave me. Don't ever leave me.' And I told her I wouldn't, even though it was at that moment I realized, when the time came, she would be the one who left."

"I'm sorry." Raiden swallowed hard. "I'm really sorry. I didn't want her to die."

"I know. You're too good for that, Ingenue."

"I'm not that good."

"I was angry for a while," Vamp said, as though he hadn't heard. "But I couldn't stay angry. I thought… I was tired of living in a world where there was no Heaven for people like her. And no Hell for men like Solidus."

"And what about you?"

Vamp laughed. "Oh, I know what'll happen to me when I die, but I'm not worried. I already know what Hell looks like. At least there won't be any surprises."

Raiden sighed. "How can you do that? Just… change your mind about everything? It shouldn't be that easy."

"It's easy," Vamp said. "The spirit is weak. You can twist it, until you get something that fits right."

"Adrian…"

"Are you okay?"

"No. You're kind of freaking me out."

"Sorry," Vamp said. He was smiling, but Raiden didn't tell him that only made things worse.

"I shouldn't have asked."

"No. I don't mind if you know. I don't have anyone else left to tell."

Raiden was quiet for a while. He couldn't hear the rain anymore, but he didn't know whether that was because it had stopped all together, or just turned to snow.

He squeezed Vamp's hand, and then took hold of the belt between them once more.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," he said. And this time Vamp loosened his grip.

Raiden pulled the bandolier away, letting it slither from beneath the blanket and onto the floor.

"Yes," Vamp said. "You're right."

"Maybe we should just get some sleep."

"Are you still cold?"

Raiden shook his head. "Not anymore."

"Good."

Vamp lapsed into silence after that, but Raiden was almost certain he wasn't asleep.


	22. Chapter 22

He never hurried when he was with his guns. Even though he knew now that the time he spent with those two revolvers could be best expressed as a fraction of the whole time he had left, to let that rush him would be the one sin he could not have forgiven.

He was alone now, returned to his little private room, and Ocelot felt as though he had all the time he could ever need.

This was a secret: Ocelot had never thought of his revolvers as part of himself. When he had been younger it had occurred to him that shooting was an uneasy alliance between shooter and gun. From the time the shooter took aim, to the moment the bullet left the chamber, a tentative hope for a mutual goal was formed. Yet, if the bullet missed its target, it was never the gun that was to blame. A blink, a twitch… these were the kinds of things that lost battles, and they were all the kind of unhealthy baggage that he brought to the brief and passionate affair of pulling the trigger. Those revolvers were infallible. They had achieved a kind of nirvana, and to shoot with them was only to be subject to their pity. To only hope that he didn't make too much of a fool of himself in front of them.

These guns would outlast him. Ocelot had come to accept that these days. They would not only outlive him, but they would have new owners after he was gone. He had no idea who those owners would be. There was no desire in him to leave his guns to anyone, but he was a realist above all else, and he knew that fine pieces like these would not stay buried even if he were to take them to his grave.

He could no more expect these guns to remain his after he died then a beautiful young widow could be expected to remain unmarried forever, but that was no reason to let people accuse him of not taking care of his things. Ocelot had spent more than a few hours with his revolvers these recent weeks. Stripping them, inspecting them. Washing away the stains and polishing away the burns. Rubbing years of dirt out of the steel, so that they gleamed like they must have when they were first issued.

He snapped the cylinder closed firmly, but hesitated a moment before setting the gun aside.

There was little pain when he did this, and as long as he moved slowly, his fingers didn't stumble over the work. He was getting better, that was his first thought. Perhaps it was possible to drive the disease into remission, to will himself well again. Stranger things had happened. You didn't even have to leave this place to find them.

Then, overhead, the lights flickered.

Ocelot's head snapped up. His grip tightened convulsively on his revolver, and he felt a small throbbing the gap between his thumb and forefinger. A cold wisp settled on his shoulder, and he realized he could see his breath in the air. Billowing white clouds of frost.

"Don't turn around, Adamska."

Ocelot tried to stand, but he couldn't. His was off balance; his legs wouldn't hold him.

"What do you want?" he said quietly.

He kept his eyes down, tilted the gun in his hand until he could see his reflection in the newly polish barrel. Until he could see over his own shoulder. In the low light, it was difficult to make anything out, but he could see the outline of an olive-colored uniform, and a smudge of lighter, almost white hair. The image was blurred, like a damaged painting or a photograph viewed through bad glass.

There was a smile in Raikov's voice when he spoke.

"Do you remember that time in Iran? When they shot you down…"

"I almost died," he said, and he was careful to not give any weight to the words. There was nothing in his voice to give them meaning beyond the literal.

"Mm-hm. Do you remember Vietnam, Adamska? When they took you from the jungle. Interrogated you for weeks before help came…"

"That was a long time ago," Ocelot said. "Years. It has nothing to do with you."

"I saved you then, you know."

"No, you didn't. You weren't there. You couldn't have been…"

"Don't be silly. I'm here now, aren't I? I've never left you for very long. I never will, not until the mission—"

"Stop it," Ocelot hissed. "There is no mission anymore. It's been over for years."

"Shut up, Adamska."

The hand on his shoulder tightened; he felt the shape of narrow, strong fingers. "Shut up and listen for once. I'm trying to help you."

He leaned down. His breath was ice cold against Ocelot's neck.

"We're not alone, you know."

Ocelot nodded. "I know."

"He's been here for years now."

"Since Shadow Moses," Ocelot said. "I know. It wasn't my decision."

An icy puff of laughter stirred the hair at the back of his neck.

"You should be more careful, Adamska."

"I thought you were looking out for me. Where were you when they were sewing that fucking kid's arm onto me?"

"Maybe you shouldn't be so trusting."

Ocelot's grip tightened on the gun in his hands, leather gloves squeaked against the barrel. Raikov's reflection wavered, and then disappeared. "I don't trust you."

"You're so cruel," Raikov said. And it was impossible to tell whether his voice was amused, or wounded. Sarcastic, or brittle.

"You're dead, Ivan," Ocelot said.

"Then why am I still here?"

"I don't know. It doesn't really matter. Ghosts just like me for some reason. They always have."

Raikov laughed softly. "Maybe you're just crazy. Maybe you see things that aren't really there. Maybe… you see the things you want to."

"You think I haven't thought of that before?"

"Maybe, Adamska, you're a lonely old man. You've lived a long time. You're like the last member of a dead race. There's no one left to pass the language onto. No one left to learn the traditions. Maybe you just want some company…"

Ocelot shook his head. "Who do you think I am?"

"I wouldn't presume. Besides, I could ask you the same thing, you know."

Ocelot was quiet for a moment. He turned the gun thoughtfully in his hands. "I think you're really there. Because I think you're too stubborn to die."

He couldn't see Raikov, but he knew somehow that he was smiling.

"You're really charming, Adamska. You know what they say, don't you? They say no one is truly dead until the last person who knew them dies too."

"Who says that?"

"Just think of how many people you're keeping alive. That's a lot of responsibility."

"I've never heard that. You're making it up."

"Lying?"

"Yes."

"To you?"

"Isn't that what you do?"

"Among other things," Raikov said quietly.

Ocelot sighed."What are you really doing here, Ivan? I don't need your help. I don't want it. So…"

"Oh, you still need me, Adamska. You need me like you need those guns under your head before you can sleep at night. Just be patient…"

"Don't play with me. I don't care who you are or what you are."

"I know you know how to be patient. It won't be much longer. When the time comes, I'll help you. I'll drag you, kicking and screaming, just like I've always done. I'll get my hands good and dirty, because you don't like filth nearly as much as you say you do."

A familiar, comforting weight settled on Ocelot's shoulder.

"I love you, you know," Raikov whispered.

Ocelot said nothing.

"What's wrong?"

"You're the only person who's ever said that to me."

"Don't get all sentimental. I hate watching a man cry."

"It's not that." Ocelot shook his head. "I don't know if you're telling me the truth. I don't have anything to compare it to."

"Poor thing."

"Vanya…"

"I can't stay."

The pressure against his back was gone. The chill seemed to evaporate from the air. Though Ocelot didn't look back, he could feel Raikov receding.

"He'll know that I've been here."

"Are you afraid of him? He's just another dead man."

Raikov didn't answer. He was already gone.


	23. Chapter 23

Raikov's greatest strength had always been his ability to disappear. That was what Ocelot remembered about him. The Major had always been striking – a real head-turner, they would have said in America – but when he wanted to, he was able to vanish into any crowd, like snow sublimating on a warm day.

He came in close sometimes, and that had never really been unbearable. It had never bothered Ocelot as much as when he slipped away.

***

He didn't speak with Raikov for weeks.

For a few days, Ocelot was grateful. After he left Raikov's quarters that night, he had paced, restlessly, until well past midnight when, at last, he had swallowed most of a bottle of vodka. It had made him numb and hazy and, most importantly, able to forget the way Raikov's mouth had felt. The way his hands had gripped him. Then, Ocelot he had fallen into a hard and dreamless sleep.

He awakened the next morning tired and sore, and not nearly hungover enough to convince himself that he had imagined it all.

His anger did not last long, though. It had been a dull and impotent rage. He would not have acted on it, not even if Raikov had planted himself before him, thrust his unbruised jaw out so his throat invited Ocelot's fingers. Ocelot wouldn't have raised his hand, not even then, because he knew he couldn't be entirely sure what he would reach for.

If he had wanted to, he could have turned Raikov into a skeleton upon which to hang the sinking he felt when he thought of losing control. It would have been convenient to blame everything on the Major, but Ocelot knew a lie when he heard one, and he believed in misleading everyone, except himself.

He would never have told Raikov any of this. He wouldn't have hinted at it, not even if he thought it might hurt the Major to hear it. But Ocelot had the feeling that Raikov already knew, or that he suspected, at least. There was no other explanation for his sudden absence.

Ocelot would catch sight of him occasionally, but always from a distance, and Raikov never glanced in his direction. He didn't need to, though; just the knowledge that he might made Ocelot's diaphragm creep up the inside of his ribcage, and caused a deep fissure to materialize between his brows.

After three weeks, he'd had enough.

He never knew where Raikov would be during the day, but once Ocelot resolved to hunt him down, he wasn't difficult to find. Ocelot prowled the compound one morning until he found Raikov in the second floor laboratory. He stalked him from a distance, until he was confident they were alone, then cornered him at last in the empty corridor that lead to Raikov's quarters.

"Major."

Raikov tensed. Ocelot had been watching closely, and so he saw it even from a few steps off.

Slowly, he turned.

"There you are, Adamska." He was smiling, if not genuinely, then convincingly enough. "I thought you had forgotten all about me."

"Come here."

Raikov raised a pale eyebrow. "All right," he said graciously. His boots were loud on the tile floor, he made no effort to mute them.

"Are you ashamed of me?" Ocelot said.

Raikov laughed. "What do you mean?"

"Are you ashamed?"

Raikov leaned close.

"Don't project, Adam."

"Where have you been?" Ocelot said, as though he hadn't heard. As though he didn't care.

Raikov smiled prettily."You look a little pale, you know. Don't tell me now… Is your heart beating hard? I bet you're terribly proud of yourself for tracking me down like this. Congratulations, Adamska."

His voice was just a whisper. "What now?"

Ocelot's hand hit the wall beside Raikov's ear, palm down and fingers fanned wide. It made his hair flutter like reeds in the water, and Raikov flinched.

"Don't do that," he hissed.

"Are you scared?"

Raikov looked down. "Is that what you want me to say?"

"Is it true?"

He hesitated a while. Ocelot couldn't see his expression.

"Yeah," he said at last. "Of course I'm scared. When you left after we—"

"I know what you did," Ocelot said quickly.

"I thought you were going to rat me out."

"Why?"

Raikov shrugged weakly. "I don't know. Just… out of meanness, maybe. Because you didn't like it. Because you don't like me. You tell me."

Ocelot sighed. "I didn't tell anyone."

"You scared the shit out of me, you know."

He reached for Raikov's hair, tangling the fingers of one hand in it. Tilting his head back, gently, so their eyes met. "I didn't tell anyone."

"You're a gentleman."

"No," Ocelot said. "I'm not. But I think you're on my side. I think you're trying to help."

"I haven't lied to you, you know," Raikov ventured. "I haven't lied about anything."

"But you haven't told the truth, either."

Raikov was quiet. His eyes didn't leave Ocelot's face. His expression was blank and still like a posed photograph.

"Have you?" Ocelot pressed.

"I just don't know. You can't expect me to remember every little thing I've ever said, can you, Adam?"

"You're lying now," Ocelot whispered.

"Not a fucking chance…"

Raikov surged forward. Their lips met, and their limbs tangled like wire. For a moment, Ocelot wasn't sure who was leaning against whom, who was propping whom up, who was kissing and who was submitting to be kissed. All he could say with any certainty was that Raikov's arms were around him, clutching at his back, cutting fissures into his skin.

"What about Volgin?" he said quietly, after Raikov had drawn back to catch his breath.

"I don't love him," Raikov breathed. "If that's what you're asking."

"That's not what I'm asking."

Raikov shook his head. "Don't worry about Volgin."

"Raikov…"

"Don't worry. He'll never know."

"How can you be so sure?" Ocelot said.

Raikov tilted his head, and his hair bobbed curiously around his shoulders. The ends turning up like the inflection at the end of a sentence.

"I know him. Don't you trust me?"

"I'm not sure anymore…"

Raikov was quiet, knowing there was more. Something unspoken, that he was determined to draw out.

"But I want to," Ocelot murmured finally.

Raikov nodded faintly, taking it in. He touched Ocelot's chest, above his heat. His fingers cut grooves in the stiff fabric of his uniform.

"I think I hurt you, Adamska."

"You didn't…"

"I didn't mean to. It wasn't my intention."

"I said, you didn't."

"Come by my room tonight. I'll make it up you."

Ocelot froze.

"Come by, when it gets dark. Everything will be all right. I promise."

Raikov moved, and Ocelot thought that he meant to lean into a kiss. But Raikov only pulled away from the wall, and slithered out of his hold. He didn't look at Ocelot as he tugged away, but his hand trailed along his chest, as far as his fingers could reach.


	24. Chapter 24

Ever since he was small, Novikov had liked to take things apart.

He had started with computers: plunging his arms in to the elbows, tangling his fingers in stray wires, tugging circuit boards free from their casings like rooted vegetables. After computers, there had been more complex machines, advanced fiber optic robotics, vehicles, weapons. Anything he asked for, he was given to consume. Disassembling and dissembling had been his first loves. The only difficult part had been learning how to put things back together again.

It wasn't until he was fifteen that Novikov had realized more things than machines could be broken down. As part of his training in anatomy, he had been asked to sit in on autopsies and assist with dissections. The tools for taking apart the human body had been different, but the work was essentially the same. It suited him well. When he dissected a human being, he didn't have to worry about lost screws or delicate silicon chips. He could tear a body apart, and not have to worry about the consequences.

It was then that Novikov had begun to watch people.

He did not want to be caught looking, so he had learned ways to be sly and covert. To watch, without anyone knowing he was there. He had begun to learn people's habits, their manners. He found that, if he watched closely enough, he could even learn their thoughts and intentions, too.

He had realized, then, that the human mind was no harder to take apart then a cathode ray tube.

In the afternoon, when Innokenty had gone to rest, and Novikov was alone, he locked himself in his office, and called up the feed from the base security system.

He scrolled quickly through the cameras. There was only one face he was interested in seeing; it was useless pretending otherwise. His pulse was slightly elevated, as though after a short run or a cup of strong black coffee. The back of his throat clicked dryly when he swallowed.

He found Lieutenant Vulich in one of the abandoned offices on the east side of the base. A book was open in his lap, and his dark eyes were half-closed and drowsy. Novikov's lips parted, as though around an unspoken word. He reached for his belt, but hesitated before flicking it open. That wasn't why there was a hollow, bottomless feeling in the pit of his stomach.

No, not this time.

Novikov's eyes didn't leave Vulich's face as he reached, slowly, to shut off the monitor. He swept his hair back, straightened the lapels of his white coat. He hadn't been aboveground since before Groznyj Grad was completed. His instructions had been explicit: He was to stay in the basement laboratory, unseen by the rest of the personnel.

But no one tried to stop him when he stepped onto the elevator.

When the steel doors opened on the above-ground hallway was like surfacing from a mausoleum into the bright sunlight. The corridors were nearly empty; he passed a pair of Gurlukovich soldiers, but they didn't glance at him.

They weren't who he was looking for.

He found Vulich in one of the hallways in the eastern wing. It was deserted except for the two of them, as though the Lieutenant had been waiting here for him to arrive. He was not as tall as Novikov had expected, and his face was not what he had become accustomed to. Film did Vulich no justice, Novikov decided. It flattened all the wrong features, smoothed all the wrong contours.

Vulich's eyes strayed to him, and for a moment Novikov was seized with an overwhelming urge to reach out and pluck them from their sockets. Grind them to blood beneath his boot…

But he only smiled, and said, "Do you have business with me, Alexei Vulich?"

"How do you know my name?" Vulich folded his arms. He had a proud, military bearing, but even at his full height he was not quite as tall as Novikov.

"I know a lot of things," the doctor said with a disarming smile. "But, unfortunately, I only know a little about you."

"I should hope so."

"So, why don't you tell me something new?"

Vulich's lips pressed thin, but Novikov didn't miss the hint of color that spilled onto his cheeks. "Pardon me?"

"Why do you keep your hair so long?" Novikov asked. "Like you want someone to take hold of it. Maybe throw you around a little, Lieutenant?"

Vulich said nothing, and his expression did not change. He turned sharply on his heels to leave.

Novikov's smile tightened.

"Be careful on whom you turn your back, Alexei."

Vulich hesitated, and his shoulders tensed.

"Who are you?" he said.

"No one you know."

He turned back then, to face Novikov, but he kept his distance. "I've seen you before."

"Impossible. You're a very unconvincing liar."

"Your face…"

Novikov raised an eyebrow.

"Do you like it?"

Vulich was quiet for a moment. His eyes were sharp and unblinking, like a portrait. Another man, Novikov thought, would have looked away, would have found an excuse to avoid that dark gaze.

"It disgusts me," Vulich said.

Novikov laughed, startled. "You wound me. Really."

He thrust his hand out. "My name is Dr. Novikov. I know yours already."

Vulich looked down at his hand, but didn't move to take it. "I don't like doctors."

"I'm not really a doctor. I'm a scientist, actually. My fields of study are—"

"I don't like scientists, either."

"What do you like, Lieutenant?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Is that right?" Novikov said. "You ought to have a little more faith in science. I've seen things you can't even begin to imagine. I'm much smarter than you give me credit for."

"Perhaps," Vulich said. "But I could tell you the same."

Novikov laughed. "You could. But you shouldn't. You really want to stay on my good side, Lieutenant. I'm your friend. I'm trying to help you."

"Why would you do something like that?"

"Because," Novikov said. "It would be a shame if you died so young and innocent."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Novikov waved his hand dismissively. "A joke. Just a bad joke."

"I'm not laughing."

"Oh, but you ought to. You can laugh, because you're perfectly safe here with me. I'll make sure you're protected."

His eyes moved down Vulich's body. A natural progression, a gradual downhill slide. "And in the end, Lieutenant, you'll be grateful to me."

He knew that wasn't true, but it was a pleasant fantasy all the same. Later, he thought, he would abandon himself to it. Lose himself for a while in a hazy dream of bending this man beneath him. Peeling away first his immaculate uniform, and then the flesh underneath.

"What's going on in this place?" Vulich asked quietly.

"History," Novikov replied. He lowered his voice, though there was no one around to overhear. "Evolution, if you like."

"What do my men have to do with it?"

Novikov smiled. There had been something dark in Vulich's words just then, something cautious. Perhaps a little afraid, not quite sure he wanted to know the answer after all, though Vulich would never admit to either.

"Stay on my good side," Novikov said. "And I'll make sure you live to find out."

He had pushed too hard. He knew that, and he reveled in it.

Vulich stepped forward. A strong hand caught him around the throat, and Novikov was shoved back a step. His shoulder blades hit the wall, and he raised one hand to wrap around Vulich's wrist, though he didn't struggle. "Easy, Lieutenant."

"You're working for Ocelot."

"No."

"Liar."

"Shalashaska does get around, but I don't work for him. I'm not a fighting man. I hate the sight of blood." He tapped two fingers against Vulich's wrist."Especially my own."

Vulich let him go, but he didn't back away. "I've always known he was a traitor. I knew… even before Colonel Gurlukovich did. And I tried to tell him, but he never did listen to me. I was just a charity case to him."

Novikov leaned in close, as close as Vulich would allow. "Let me tell you something, Lieutenant."

Vulich shook his head sharply. "I just want the truth. Who are you? Why have I seen your face before?"

"Fear death by water, Alexei."

Novikov stepped back abruptly. He cocked his wrists, pointing at Vulich with the first two fingers of each hand.

"And watch your step around Revolver Ocelot, too."


	25. Chapter 25

Sometimes, after Raikov came to him, the memories faded as quickly as a dream. Ocelot wondered if perhaps he did not meet the Major in the real world, but rather in a kind of in between space. Somewhere dark and cold, where nature did not quite work the way it should have. When Raikov left, all those strange physics decayed and collapsed. Things were brighter, so vibrant that Ocelot came up blinking as though stepping from a dark room into the sunlight.

It had not escaped Ocelot's attention that he was growing older, and that his mind could not be expected to stay hatchet-sharp forever. But if this was madness, then surely it could wait until after the mission was over.

Ocelot had had experiences with phantoms before, and he had come to accept them as part of his being. However, he didn't believe anything without question, and he knew that these manifestations could just as easily be hallucinations or dementia. Perhaps this was nothing more than a guilty conscience become manifest, like something out of a Hawthorne novel. But if that was so, then surely Ocelot's subconscious could produce a more haunting specter than Ivan Raikov.

He had known the Major well, but only for a short while, and that had all been years ago. There were better archetypes to choose from: The White Goddess. The Heroic Warrior. Ocelot had known them, too, and they had carved their names on him as indelibly as Raikov had.

It would be better if he stopped thinking about it for now, and just let forgetfulness come.

He had not yet looked at the book Innokenty had given him, but it hadn't left his coat pocket. Its weight against his hip when he walked had, at some point, become less of an annoyance and more of a comfort to him.

He reached for it now, and took it out.

Ocelot had read Dostoyevsky before, back when he was a young man. His eyes had taken in every word, but he had remembered very little. There were three brothers, and a fourth in rumor only. A murder, an affair, and a monastery. A late-night visit from the Devil.

He turned the volume over in his hands. Eight hundred pages of skittering Cyrillic text seemed now an insurmountable task, one he would never be able to complete in this lifetime. He dragged his thumb idly over the edges of the pages, making them flutter. When he reached the middle, a piece of paper slid from between the sheets, hit the side of the table, and drifted to the floor. Ocelot's eyes followed it down. It was folded over twice, into a neat, nondescript square: easy to transport; easy to conceal.

Ocelot bent to pick it up, but his fingers cramped and stumbled. As he tried to straighten them, a soft knock came on the door.

"Come in," Ocelot said smoothly, without hesitation. He forced his hand to move, hooking the tip of his finger under the paper, straightening up and making it disappear into his glove in a single fluid motion.

The door opened a crack, and Kolya, the young Gurlukovich soldier, hovered in the doorway, not quite in the hallway and not quite inside.

"Shalashaska?" His expression was somewhere between nervous and hopeful. "Do you remember me? I'm…"

"Your name is Nikolai."

The boy's eyes widened slightly.

"It's only been a day since we met," Ocelot said. "I'm not senile yet."

"Oh, no, sir. I wasn't saying—"

"What do you want?" Ocelot said sharply.

Kolya jumped, paled a shade, and Ocelot remembered that he had once wanted to sway this boy to his side; he had once thought he might be of some use.

"I need your help with something," Kolya stammered.

"What?"

"I have to show you. I can't tell you."

Ocelot's eyes narrowed. "I'm busy now."

A change came over the boy. His expression tightened, and he straightened in place, tipping his shoulders back so his head was high. His voice was still soft, but firmer now.

"It's important, Shalashaska. Sir."

His curiosity was aroused now. Ocelot stood and followed Kolya to the first floor. He didn't press the boy for information, nor try to speak to him at all. Kolya was embarrassed, but determined. Ocelot's interest outweighed his suspicion and resentment at being interrupted. The contents of the note in Innokenty's book would keep. Those things always did.

Lieutenant Vulich waited for them in one of the empty offices, tipped back in his chair with his feet propped insolently on a desk. Ocelot was reluctant to admit it, but he was surprised to see him there.

He nodded toward Vulich's boots.

"Were you born in a barn?" he said.

"Shut the door, Nikolai," Vulich said. He unfolded his long legs, and his boots sounded heavily as he dropped his feet to the floor.

"What's this about, Lieutenant?" Ocelot said. "You didn't need to send your friend to fetch me. We're not in grade school."

"Who's Dr. Novikov?" Vulich said.

Ocelot hesitated. He had taken great care to compartmentalize his experiences in this place; it was his only hope of keeping his aliases intact. Here, in the fortress of Groznyj Grad, he was Shalashaska; in the laboratory beneath the earth, he was Ocelot; and it was only in the dreamlike cusp between the two that it was permissible to be Adamska. But to hear Novikov's name spoken in Vulich's voice made the boundaries between his worlds bleed uncomfortably.

"If I knew that, Lieutenant…" Ocelot said

"Do you expect me to believe that you don't?"

"I am… aware of the Doctor," Ocelot admitted.

"That's not what I asked."

Ocelot was very conscious of Kolya, who stood at his left shoulder, shifting nervously from foot to foot an keeping his silence like a statue.

"I don't know what his game is," Ocelot said with a sigh. His eyes drifted from Vulich's face, over to Kolya. "But I'm certain you're not safe. If you were bright, Lieutenant, you'd tuck your tail between your legs and run."

"You have no idea what he wants from me," Vulich snapped.

"Then what do you want to know?"

Vulich planted his palms on the table, and rose to his feet. "What is he to you?"

"That's an odd question, Lieutenant."

"Is he your son?" Vulich said bluntly.

Ocelot was too startled even to laugh. "That's nonsense. Did he tell you that?"

"He has your eyes."

"My eyes?"

"And your face," Vulich said. "And your build. He's thinner than you, but I can see it in his shoulders. And he has your hands. If you were younger, Shalashaska…"

"I don't have any children," Ocelot said sharply.

"You're sure?"

"I'd know if I did. There are… a lot of things I know."

Vulich didn't seem convinced, but he kept his silence. He leaned back on his bootheels, looking Ocelot over.

"Just like you know what's best for my men?"

"I do, Lieutenant. Whether you want to believe it or not, the choice is yours to make. It's your life."

"I know you killed Sergei Gurlukovich, Shalashaska. I know you killed Olga."

Kolya gasped sharply. His unmangled hand flew to hover about his lips. "Lieutenant!"

"Go wait outside, Nikolai," Vulich said.

"Lieutenant…"

"Go."

Vulich's expression didn't change. When Kolya was gone he said, "I am not afraid of dying, Shalashaska. When you grow up with death all around, it loses its power over you. It's no longer a mystery."

"Do you really expect me to believe that?" Ocelot said. "You talk a good game, Lieutenant. I'll give you that."

"Quiet. Listen to me. My father was a coal miner. The blacklung made him an old man before he was forty. When he knew he was going to die, he calmly and quietly set all his affairs in order. He took a glass of vodka with dinner. My grandmother did not approve. She had raised him to be an observant Muslim, but I know my father was always more Russian than Kazakh at heart. After the meal, he retired to his room. The next morning, he was dead, and none of us were surprised."

"Is that how you want to go?" Ocelot asked. "It doesn't seem that bad."

"I want to die with determination. Without fear. But I don't want to go quietly," Vulich said. "When I was a little older, tuberculosis took my sister. It didn't have to happen; we just didn't have medicine there in the mountains. And so she died screaming and cursing, Shalashaska. Day and night. In the end, she clawed the flesh from her chest, as though she dig the rot out. We all knew when she died. We knew the very moment her life ended. And that is how a good person dies."

Ocelot nodded slightly. He had let Vulich talk because it sounded familiar. It even made him a little nostalgic. "You sound like someone I used to work for."

"Someone who's dead?"

"Oh, yes. For almost twenty years now."

"Did you kill him?" Vulich asked.

"Let's just say, I didn't prolong his life any." Ocelot was smiling when he said it, but talking about Jack always stung. A wound might stop bleeding, but scar tissue was never as strong as the skin had been.

"I'm not surprised," Vulich said.

"He was a soldier, you know. A damn good soldier. You don't see too many like him these days. The world has moved on. There's not much left for people like us."

"I am nothing like you, Shalashaska."

"Don't be so sure," Ocelot said. "You live in the past. You cling to it like a drowning man clutches a spar."

Vulich started to protest, but Ocelot silenced him.

"You live for a failed ideology. You think of your dead family before you think of the living. You stand there, and you accuse me of killing Sergei Gurlukovich, when you should really be concerned about how soon I'm going to get bored with your antics and put a bullet in your pretty little head."

"Not if I put one in your back first."

Ocelot laughed. "We're done here. I'll see you, Lieutenant, I'm sure."

"Wait," Vulich said, before Ocelot could turn away. "There was one more thing. Something Novikov said to me…"

"You shouldn't listen to idle flattery."

"He said… 'Fear death by water.' What does that mean?"

Ocelot bit back a smile.

"I'm surprised, Lieutenant. You seem well read. I thought you'd know your poets a little better. It means… he wants you to be very impressed by him. Are you impressed yet?"

Vulich turned away in disgust, and Ocelot saw himself out.

Kolya was still waiting in the hall. His eyes were wide and liquid, and he had shrunk a little since Ocelot saw him last.

"Shalashaska," he whispered. "Is what he said—?"

"Careful, kid," Ocelot said. "Don't ask questions if you don't want to know the answers."

He reached out and set a hand on Kolya's shoulder. The boy did not flinch away.

"Don't worry," Ocelot said. "I think, in the end, everything will turn out the way it ought to."


	26. Chapter 26

Ocelot knew he was not alone.

He had sequestered himself in his quarters and locked the door. He had scanned the room until he found the little security camera hidden in one of the corners, and he had dragged the table and chair across the floor until they were positioned directly beneath it, out of sight of its unblinking red eye.

The feeling of being watched remained.

He felt urgent. He was hurtling toward some unknown destination, moving faster as the days he spent in this place stretched into weeks. He wasn't as certain as he once had been that he was going to be able to stop what had been set in motion.

Ocelot dug two fingers beneath the hem of his glove. His joints ached, but obeyed, and he pulled the folded leaf of paper loose. He rested it a moment in the palm of his hand before he began to peel apart the creases, laying the paper flat on the table in front of him. His lips pressed thin as he read the words printed across the top of the page:

NET OUTPUT OF IONIZED RADIATION FOR GROZNYG GRAD FASCILITY

Two columns ran down the center of the paper; a series of dates in the first, and a Geiger Counter readout in the second. The earliest date was two months ago. There had been only a whiff of a radiation in the air then. .27 gray was only a taste of poison, but, if it were left untreated, even a taste would kill over time.

The readout numbers held steady for three weeks, hovering between .25 and .3. They didn't spike for three weeks, but when they did, they flew up past 1 gray. Past 3, past 6, to a steady plateau at 6.37.

Ocelot read it over twice, just to be certain.

It had been years since he had learned any physics – decades - but he remembered this.

This was complete saturation. These were the levels of radiation in Chernobyl's air before the clean up, in Hiroshima after the bomb.

If he had been exposed to this, had absorbed even a portion of it, then he was already a walking ghost.

Ocelot's eyes flicked again over the columns, before they were drawn to the words written in the bottom corner of the page. It was scrawled in pencil, obviously with some effort; a few of the letters were crooked and malformed in places. It was the way a young child wrote.

 _Fear Death by Water_ , the message read.

Ocelot felt a deep pain in his hands, and his fingers curled like claws inside his leather gloves.

 _Fear Death by Water_.

He read it again, hearing the words aloud in his mind. Spoken softly; the way Innokenty spoke to him when he was confiding a secret.

Ocelot stared at the words, his mind slow and stubborn, refusing to comprehend. And then the lights went out.

Ocelot caught his breath and his hands fell over the paper, hiding it. A deep cold descended almost instantaneously; knifing through his coat and into his bones.

"Ivan?" he whispered.

"Not quite."

The words came from nowhere in particular. They rung around his ears, as though jerked from the air itself.

Ocelot took a deep breath, and the cold burned his lungs.

"Go away, Liquid."

"I don't think so. I'm not through with you yet."

"You're dead," Ocelot said flatly.

"I've heard that one before. It's a nice sentiment, but not true. I died. But I'm not dead. Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know. There's something you want, I suppose."

"Something in the blood, is it?"

There was amusement in Liquid's voice. Ocelot had played enough hands of poker with him to know that Big Boss' favorite son was terrible at keeping secrets. He knew something, there was a mystery that needed unraveling; but, for the first time, Ocelot didn't care.

"I'm an old man now, kid," he said. "What do you want with this body anyway? I don't have much time left, you know."

"The walking dead?" Liquid smirked.

"Aren't we all?"

"You have no idea," Liquid said. "You haven't been where I've been, Ocelot. Don't ever forget that. When was the last time you had to fight for your life? When was the last time you really feared death?"

"That's cute, Liquid. Coming from the man who couldn't even kill his own brother."

"You don't know what death is like…"

"I will, soon enough," Ocelot said quietly. There was something about Liquid that brought out his morbid side. The decapitation, maybe, or the psychic cannibalism.

It was as if Liquid smiled a little when he said, "You know, when that time comes, you'll fight for every moment. Every breath. There won't be any other choice."

"Is that all you want, Liquid? Life…"

"I want another month. Another few days. It doesn't matter. And what I want, I take."

"You already had it," Ocelot hissed. "You lost your chance. You just weren't good enough. And I bet I know what you really want…"

Ocelot closed his eyes, and tried to remember the last time he had seen Solid Snake. The face his mind conjured was almost the same, but completely different.

"Revenge on your brother." Ocelot went on. His voice sounded hard, the way it would have if Jack had never been a part of his life. "Am I getting warm, Liquid? You're so banal. Everything you do is so predictable."

Liquid was quiet for a while, almost long enough to make Ocelot think he was gone. Then he said, "You're getting weaker, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you mean," Ocelot said.

"Been feeling tired, Ocelot? Fatigued? Sick to your stomach? Aching? Do you know the symptoms of radiation poisoning?"

Ocelot said nothing, and Liquid, as usual, took it as an indication to go on.

"Then again, maybe you're getting stronger," he mused.

"You can't have it both ways, Liquid."

"No? But you've been seeing things lately, haven't you? Jumping at shadows…"

"They're more than just shadows," Ocelot said.

"Have you seen my father lately?"

Ocelot hesitated a moment.

"Don't lie to me," Liquid said. "I'll know."

"No." Ocelot shook his head. There was no reason to lie. "He never comes to me. He never has before. I don't even dream about him these days."

"Why not?"

"Maybe he doesn't have anything to say."

"He never had that problem when he was alive."

Ocelot smiled faintly, as though savoring a fond memory. "You still hate him, don't you? You ought to. You have good reason."

"I don't—"

"He wasn't hard enough on you," Ocelot said. "He didn't toughen you up when he had the chance. I'd be angry, too."

"I don't hate him!" Liquid said sharply. The air reverberated like a plucked wire with the words. "I don't hate him. But I should have been the one to kill him."

Ocelot sighed."Perhaps. That's a sight I would have liked to see."

"Come now, Ocelot. Didn't I just say I'd know if you were lying?"

"You say a lot of things."

Liquid had rarely ever been able to surprise him, but he did now, when his voice softened and he said, "What was my father to you?"

"You don't want to know that."

"What if I do? Are you just going to take it to your grave, Ocelot?"

"I said, you don't want to know."

"Because you don't want me to know? Or because you don't even know yourself?"

Ocelot smirked. "You haven't changed at all. Not since you were a child."

"I'll make you tell me," Liquid said.

"All right, Liquid," Ocelot said thoughtfully. "You're welcome to try, but I won't make it easy for you. I fought you off once before."

"But it's different now. I'm inside you. I'm worse than cancer. I'll squeeze the life right out of you…"

Ocelot's fingers moved around the piece of paper in his hands, as though he could trace the words scrawled there by memory alone.

Fear Death by Water, Innokenty had written. That boy, who understood death only as a series of ones and zeroes, and fear only as it appeared in the psychological interviews left behind by warriors most of the world had forgotten.

Ocelot knew there was something of him in Innokenty. Just a piece. Small, but significant. He had contributed to what that boy had become. There was something of Jack, too, and of all his sons, the dead ones and the dying. There was something of that kid, Raiden, whom Ocelot remembered the best from the years they had spent together in Liberia. Something of Fortune, whom he had killed for no real reason, and something of Vamp, whom he had spared for no reason except that Solidus had asked. Innokenty would outlive them all, and he would outlast a world that had any need for soldiers, but Ocelot didn't resent the boy for that. Instead, he felt a distant affection, and a gnawing sense of pride.

The way he might have felt if he'd had a son.

"Go away, Liquid," Ocelot sighed. "I have things I need to do."

"Promises to keep, is it?" Liquid said. "Or miles to go before you sleep?"

"Just a mission to attend to. And I always complete my mission."

Ocelot knew, even before the lights flickered back on, that Liquid had left him.


	27. Chapter 27

Sometime during the night, the rain had frozen on the ground, and covered the Jeep in a thick cocoon of ice. The windows on the east side were stained pink and indigo, and hovering above the rearview mirror, the rising sun was ball of red light, small and hard like a fist; wavering and obscured as though glimpsed through a plate of stained glass.

Raiden could see all this from where he lay.

He hadn't moved much since he had awakened, only enough to follow the slow progress of the sunrise over ice-encrusted windowpanes.

One edge of the blanket was clutched tightly at his throat, making the fabric buckle like oceanic waves. A sea, beneath which slumbered ancient and terrible beasts. He would wake them if he stirred too much, and then there'd be hell to pay.

His head was nestled neatly beneath Vamp's chin, curtained by his long black hair. His ear was against Vamp's chest, so he could hear the steady tidal rush of his breath, feel the contractions and releases of his muscles. Last night, Raiden's dreams had been filled with things he would never speak of. Things he wasn't brave enough to recall, in the harsh light of morning.

Raiden felt as though he knew Vamp's body well by now. The curve of muscle, the contour of pale skin, the sharp angles of his face, his blue eyes. No one was supposed to look like he did, not in real life, and as Raiden laid there, his head on Vamp's chest, listening to the steady comfort of his breathing, he tried to decide how much of this man was the real thing.

His body was too chiseled to be a military man's. He had spent long hours in the gym, shaping and toning, molding his chest and his arms to the shape he wanted. Though Vamp was not old, he wasn't young anymore, either, and the tightness at his temples suggested a facelift somewhere along the line. Raiden couldn't help but wonder who he was trying to impress, because Vamp must have always been beautiful, even as a child. He could have been, without any effort at all, another handsome aging hipster with an apartment in a decent part of town. He could have passed himself off as a model or an actor, a photographer or a writer, anything, really, except for a career military man. He could have had a new notch in his bedpost every night.

But none of that had been good enough; somehow, Vamp had to transcend it all.

Lately, Raiden had been trying to practice self-reflection. Living with consoling lies had gotten him in trouble before, and so he had begun to teach himself to have a more critical eye. He would be lying, for example, if he said he didn't enjoy Vamp's attention, his cool flirting, his pet names. Everything that he did so easily, while Raiden still blushed and stammered at the sight of uncovered skin.

Vamp was a monster, of course, but he was also indisputably worth all the trouble.

The sun had climbed another half-inch in the window, and its orange rays slanted across Vamp's face. He muttered like a child, and hiked the blanket up to cover his face.

Raiden would have let him sleep – he was in no hurry to go anywhere – if that motion had not dragged the covers up past his calf. The cold stung his bare foot, and Raiden yelped, jerking his leg back beneath the blanket.

By the time he turned back, Vamp's eyes were already open, unclouded by sleep.

"What time is it?"

Raiden shrugged, looking away. He hovered awkwardly, somewhere between leaning back against Vamp's body and pulling away entirely.

"Morning…" he said quietly. "What're we going to do?"

Vamp slithered out from under the covers, and crawled over the center console into the front seat.

"Adrian!" Raiden cried, shielding his eyes.

Vamp may have had his share of charms, but no one looked good from that angle.

"Glad to see you slept well."

Vamp took the car keys from the visor above the driver's seat, slid them into the ignition. The engine coughed weakly, but didn't turn over.

"Well?" Raiden said.

Vamp shrugged. "It's fucked. We'll have to walk. You said there was a town, right?"

"Yeah. It's two miles, maybe three. Will we be able to get a mechanic?"

"We'll be able to get a tow, I think. It's better than staying here. Hand me my clothes, would you? My bag is down by your foot."

Raiden blushed again. He must have been nearing his quota on that.

They dressed in the tight, awkward confines of the Jeep. Vamp in the front seat, kicking his legs over the center console as he pulled his jeans on. Raiden in the back, on his knees and hunched at the shoulders so he could put on a faded Henley shirt.

They left the Jeep behind just as the last tint of sunrise faded from the sky. Side-by-side, without a word to each other, they hiked up the snow-crusted highway to the top of the hill.

"The pass must be closed," Vamp said as they crested the peak. "No one's been by this way. The snow's still white."

Raiden's foot skidded on a patch of ice, and he landed heavily in the snow.

Vamp didn't laugh, just reached down and offered his hand. "Careful. It's all frozen underneath."

They went down in to the town and stopped at the first house, a white plaster cottage with a red roof and a coil of smoke coming from the chimney. Raiden had become so accustomed to city living that he had long since stopped believing such picturesque places actually existed.

Before they had even reached the door, a young couple had come out to meet them. Vamp did the talking. His Romanian was hesitant and shaky, but the villagers had endless reservoirs of patience. They corrected him gently, and sometimes made him repeat himself just so they could titter over his American accent.

Raiden stayed back and kept silent. Talking about this place had made Vamp angry before, and Raiden didn't want to be responsible if that happened again.

The woman finally touched the elbow of Vamp's coat with one hand, and gestured down the road with the other.

Vamp listened closely, then nodded to Raiden."Let's go. She says we can find someone with a truck at the edge of town."

Raiden moved close, but he waited until they were alone again before speaking.

" Are you okay?"

"Hmm?"

"I mean, are you okay with this place. You seem a little distracted."

Vamp smiled at him, but it was strained. The kind of polite smile usually reserved for relatives or coworkers. "I'm fine. Don't be paranoid, Jack."

"Paranoid…?"

Raiden stopped himself. There had been something strange in Vamp's voice just then; something he was quite certain he didn't want to hear again anytime soon.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Guess it was just… a bad night last night."

Immediately, he wished he hadn't said that, but Vamp didn't reply and his silence was insurmountable.

They walked together to the far corner of the village, to another white and red cottage with a roof that bowed slightly beneath the weight of the snow. It was much the same as any other cottage in the little town, except that it had a truck parked in the muddy front yard, a rusty Soviet-era fossile.

Raiden stopped at the front gate.

"You really think that thing is going to run?"

"Why not?" Vamp shrugged.

"It's older than _you_ , Adrian."

"I'm not that old. Besides, the Russian military builds things to last."

He reached for the gate, but before he could unlatch it the door of the cottage swung open.

" _Bună_."

A tall, solid man with a quick stride came toward them across the yard. His face was beginning to sink into old age and his jaw was flecked with a few days' worth of stubble, but his eyes were still sharp and clear blue.

He stopped at the gate, taking it in broad hands and leaning forward.

"Hello."

Vamp smiled, relieved. "You speak English?"

"I do. Some of it." He laughed, and held out a hand. "My name is Radu Valenescu."

"Adrian." Vamp hesitated a moment, and then spoke very quickly. "Lazarescu."

Radu's lips curved into a smile. His teeth were crooked, but very white. "That's a good Romanian name. But your accent… that's not so good. You've been away too long."

"Almost twenty-five years. I don't remember anything."

"But your name sounds familiar. Lazarescu… Perhaps you have family in this region?"

"I don't know," Vamp said quickly. "I'm here on business."

Raiden stepped forward before Radu could question him further, thrusting his hand between them like a wedge. "I'm Jack. Our car broke down on the hill outside of town. Can you give us a tow?"

"Of course."

Radu glanced at Vamp inquisitively, then shrugged. "Wouldn't want to keep you gentlemen from your business."

With a sweep of his hand, he motioned to the truck crouched in the snow. "Something, isn't she? Would tow a barge on dry land. Climb in, my Americans."

They piled into the cab, Radu behind the wheel, Vamp by the window, and Raiden between the two of them. The seats creaked and sent up thick clouds of black dust. Radu cleaned a mixture of dirt and frost off the inside of the windshield with his sleeve.

"Where did you get this truck?" Raiden asked. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Bucharest, about ten years ago now. A Russian in a three-piece suit sold it to me cheap. Said he would only take cash. I'm just a farm boy; I don't ask questions. I figured it would come in handy back home. Seems like every winter I have to tow a few people down from the pass. Spring, too, when the snow melts and everything turns to mud. Then in the summer, there are always things that need moving…"

Radu chatted amiably the entire way back to the Jeep, pausing only for a moment at a time, when he had to navigate the truck around a particularly tight corner or over an icy patch on the highway. It was never long enough for him to realize that Vamp had fallen into a sullen, unbroken silence, but Raiden couldn't help but notice. He reached over, setting a hand over Vamp's. Vamp did not reciprocated, but he did not pulled away either.

They crested the hill, and the breaks screeched as Radu leaned on them. "How long were you two stuck out here?"

"Since last night," Raiden said. "The storm came up and we couldn't make it into town."

"Lucky you didn't freeze to death." Radu laughed. "It's a horrible way to go."

He swung the truck around, so the tail end was next to the Jeep's nose. He climbed out, sinking into the banked snow up to his knees.

"The tires are iced over," he said. "I can break you out. This is a very nice car. Do you always travel the American way? That's what went wrong, I'm sure."

He laughed again, breathless in the cold air, as he opened the hood.

"What seems to be the problem?"

"It won't start," Raiden said. "It overheated last night."

He hovered at Radu's shoulder, peering around his arms as the man poked around under the hood. Vamp stood behind them, his head lowered and his arms crossed. Raiden didn't know what the expression on his face was like; he didn't dare to look.

"I see the problem now!" Radu said. "There's a hole here. In your radiator."

"Where do we go to get it replaced?" Raiden said.

"Oh, no one around here has parts like this."

Vamp lifted his head sharply. "Can you patch it?"

"It depends on how far you have to go," Radu said with a shrug.

"To the Russian border, then another 200 miles. We have three days of travel ahead of us."

"Maybe I can, maybe I can't," Radu said. He slammed the hood, and walked back to his truck to unwind the chains and retrieve a hammer from a chest in the bed. He wrapped the chains around the bumper, and began to break the ice away from the tires with the hammer. "Around here, we can get in a lot of trouble for aiding smugglers."

"We're not…" Raiden started to say, but Vamp silenced him with a glance.

He stepped forward. "A good Christian would help those in need. 'What you do for the least of these, so do you do for me.' "

Vamp held out his hand, and Radu took it briefly. Raiden didn't need to see his palm to know that there was a bill folded into it.

"Yes," Radu said. "I can patch this hole. I can't promise it will hold all the way to the Russian border, but maybe in Kiev you can get it fixed."

His smile returned, easily. "Right now, I need you two to go behind and push. She is stuck pretty good."

They worked the Jeep free without too much trouble, and then climbed back into the cab of Radu's truck. Raiden set his hand over Vamp's again, because he hadn't complained the last time.

He didn't complain this time, either, and Raiden felt a strange surge of pride at that.

"You know," he said to Radu. "We're really not smugglers."

"Sure you aren't." Radu glanced at him, winked quickly. "My mistake. You're just businessmen."

"I really mean it, though…"

"It's all right," Radu said. "Kind of exciting. We don't get much excitement around here. You know, this villagers of this town, they once gave Vlad Tepes shelter from the Turks. They hid him. He was just a young man back then; that was before he started impaling people."

Radu chuckled, as though at a private joke.

"Nothing like that these days. There was the rockslide last summer. Buried two of the cows out on the Ionescu farm. Smashed them flat, it did. We were afraid it'd gotten their youngest boy, too, but it turned out he was just sleeping in the loft. Scared us to death."

"Is that so?" Raiden said.

"But the thing everyone in Arefu remembers the best was the explosion."

"Explosion?"

"It happened going on thirty years back, I'd say. Most people who are old enough still remember it. I was just a little brat then, but not a day goes by that I don't thank the Lord my father was a godless heathen. It was the Catholic church. Went up in flames right during the middle of Sunday Mass. No survivors, I don't think."

"Oh…" Raiden said.

But he wasn't paying attention to Radu's story. He had stopped when Vamp pulled his hand away, and slid over to lean against the door.

After the Jeep had been towed, Radu advised them to rent a room for the night, and directed them to the little inn near the town center.

***

Vamp had lapsed again into uncomfortable silence.

"Something on your mind?" Raiden asked, and knew immediately that it hadn't sounded as casual as he would have liked.

"I was just thinking…"

"I could tell," Raiden muttered. "Must be a hell of a thought."

"Thinking… about that man."

"Radu, you mean? I think he's all right. Talks a lot, but he must get bored out here. Seeing the same people every day, the same little town all the time. I don't blame him."

"That wasn't what I meant."

Vamp sighed. "I guess I was just wondering… why I didn't end up like him. If things had turned out differently. If I hadn't come to America when I did. I don't know what I would have become, Ingenue. Not the person I am today."

"I don't know," Raiden said. "Anyone could say that, about anything. It's no use wondering. This is the way things turned out."

"But wouldn't it have been better?"

"Better?" Raiden echoed.

"You know…" Vamp began, but trailed off almost as quickly.

Raiden sighed. "Better for you, Adrian? Or for someone else? I know you have some stuff in your past. We all do. Maybe I'm not as smart as you, but I learned a few things in my life. I know you shouldn't feel guilty for what happened—Adrian!"

Vamp had stopped dead in his tracks. Raiden had to spin on his heels, and backtrack a few steps.

"What the hell's gotten into you, Adrian?"

Vamp shook his head.

"I know. I think…" He turned sharply, toward the east. A grove of green coniferous trees pressed up against the backs of the cottages on that side of town. The road narrowed into a thin dirt path.

"Please don't follow me, Ingenue."

He was gone by the time Raiden realized what had happened, and he had to run to catch up.

"Adrian, wait. Stop. There's nothing over there…"

Vamp cut into the trees, his boots crunching on the snow. He slipped once, landed on one knee, but he was back up again before Raiden could catch him. He didn't bother to duck the overgrown boughs. They slapped against his face and shoulders with dull wet sounds like open-handed blows.

"You fucking asshole," Raiden gasped. "You can't just…"

Then the trees opened into a meadow, and Raiden was silent. In the center of the clearing was a small chapel. It was the only building he'd seen so far with stone walls and a tiled roof. It was white, whiter even than the snow, and the door was stained ruby red, so bright that Raiden couldn't bear to look directly at it.

Vamp went ahead of him, his figure jagged and black against the snow. There was a stone monument near the entrance of the church, two arches, like a pair of tombstones grown together, with a cross jutting up from between them.

For a moment, Raiden though Vamp had slipped on the ice again, when he went down on his knees beside the tombstones. Then his hand stretched out, and slid slowly down one of the stone faces.

"Adrian…?"

Raiden came forward slowly, close enough to see over Vamp's shoulder. He couldn't read the words in Romanian across the top of the arches, but he understood the names and dates below them. Four columns, perhaps a hundred names followed by, he supposed, birth dates. For a moment, Raiden could only stare. Vamp's nails scraped against the stone like fingers on the inside of a coffin lid, following one of the columns down, down, until, near the bottom of the stone, he stopped

Raiden reached for his shoulder, but he wasn't sure which one of them needed to be steadied. Framed between Vamp's clutching hands, he could read nine names. The names he was sure Vamp, too, was reading over and over again.

 _Estera Lazarescu, 1938_

 _Matatias Lazarescu, 1951_

 _Julia Lazarescu, 1953_

 _Vladimir Lazarescu, 1975_

 _Ylena Lazarescu, 1973_

 _Konstantin Lazarescu, 1969_

 _Nadezhda Lazarescu, 1971_

 _Adrian Lazarescu, 1983_

 _Nicolae Lazarescu, 1986_

It took Raiden a minute to realize that the tearing he heard was not the wind. It was Vamp's ragged breathing.

"Don't do this," Raiden murmured. "Don't do this right now…"

But then Vamp's shoulder was no longer beneath his hand. He was on his feet again, and moving toward the door of the church, which shown like an unblinking red eye. Vamp passed the black plague column near the entrance, its spire an accusatory finger thrust upward toward heaven. He climbed the three steps that lead to the chapel door.

Raiden stayed behind, and his eyes were drawn again to those nine names. They had been carved no deeper in the stone than any of the rest. They were no different. It was easy to lose them, easy to let them blur into insignificance.

He closed his eyes, and tried to give faces to the names. An old woman, a young man, a child: he tried to imagine them with eyes that had never known the shadow of death. But the only face he could picture was Adrian's. His name had been included by accident amongst the dead, but he had survived. He was alive now, Raiden thought, and he needed someone as much as a man like that ever needed company.

Raiden opened his eyes again, dazzled momentarily by the brightness of sun on fresh snow.

"Hey," he called. "Hey, wait."

Vamp was already on the threshold of the chapel, but he paused there, long enough for Raiden to catch him. It as dark inside, lit only by candles, but warm and dry. Raiden blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

"Come in," Vamp said softly. "They rebuilt this place. It looked different before."

"Are you okay?" Raiden asked.

Vamp crossed himself as he stepped inside, slow and deliberate, touching the tips of his fingers to each contact point.

"I haven't been to church in years," he said. "I'm overdue for Confession."

"I don't think you should do that…"

Vamp glanced back to face him, and Raiden hurried on. "I mean, do you think any priest would believe half the things you've done?"

Vamp had already turned away. He cut up the aisle between the pews, the tails of his long coat brushing the benches, leaving damp streaks on the wood. To one side of the front altar was a wooden dais, faced with chipping marble. An icon of Christ set into a niche in the wall, one hand lifted in benevolent blessing. The altar below was ringed with yellow candles and crusted in layers of old, faded wax.

Vamp knelt, crossed himself again.

" _Mater dei_ ," he said, and the rest was silent, or forgotten.

He lit one of the candles, and the smoke spiraled upward toward the ceiling.

Raiden crouched down beside him – took a knee, as they said in basic training. "Are these… Do you light them for people who are dead?"

Vamp shook his head. "They're votive candles. You light them when you come to pray."

"Can I…?" Raiden asked quietly, reaching for one of the lit candles.

"As long as you have something to pray for."

"I do," Raiden said.

He looked down, watching the few candles sputter and flicker. None of them were new. Some had burned down completely, until they had become one with the pedestal and the base of the icon.

"I just don't know how," he said.

"You'll learn," Vamp said. He took Raiden's hand gently, tipping it down to touch the candle flame to an unlit wick, then he bowed his head, and closed his eyes. A change came over him; a peaceful countenance, like a wave of sleep.

Raiden watched for a moment, but Vamp didn't move. He folded his hands the way Vamp had, but there seemed to him no significance to it. Raiden had never thought about religion before, never wondered at the existence of God. If there was a Heaven, he already knew he would never see it. He wasn't sure what he expected to happen when he closed his eyes and lowered his head so he could feel the heat of the votive candles on his face. If there was magic in the ritual, he couldn't feel it, but it couldn't hurt to say a few words for the bones of the men and women buried beneath the monument outside. Many people had thought the same thing over the years. It was easy to pray for the dead, but how long, Raiden wondered, had it been since one of them had stopped to pray for the living?

He swayed on his knees, so his shoulder brushed against Vamp's, and he could feel the comforting solidness of his body. Protect him, he thought. Protect us. Just a little longer. Just give us one more chance. Maybe next time, we'll know better.

"Amen," Vamp murmured, and Raiden almost jumped.

His eyes fluttered open. Vamp was already on his feet, already moving towards the door.

Raiden struggled up, following him out.

Vamp walked down the center aisle, pressing his palms to the back of the pews as he passed. Flecks of color from the stained glass darted over his black hair, slid down his leather coat. He pushed through the red door, stepped out into the sunlight and the glittering white snow.

And it was then that he collapsed.

Raiden wasn't quite close enough to catch him as he went down, but he ran the last few steps to his side and knelt beside him on the steps of the church. Vamp didn't turn to face him. His legs were tucked beneath his body, eyes straight ahead. His hair was in disarray around his face.

"Adrian?" Raiden said.

When Vamp didn't reply, Raiden reached out, setting a hand on his shoulder.

"Adrian," he said quietly. "You okay? You're kind of freaking me out. Can… you get up, maybe?"

"They're gone," Vamp whispered. The wind caught his words like brittle dead leaves, swept them away across the churchyard.

"They've been gone a long time."

Vamp shook his head. "Not like this. I left this place so long ago. I never tried to find it. I'm a different person now then I was back then. I'm not the boy who left Bucharest for America. I remembered this place, like you remember a dream. Like Eden..."

Raiden swallowed hard. "But they were your family, weren't they?"

"All of them. The Devil came for them that day. He came for me too. I felt his claws on my heart."

"It wasn't," Raiden said. "It was just… an accident. A fire. A gas leak or something."

"It smelled like sulfur. There, under the earth…"

"Christ," Raiden whispered. Vamp's voice was hollow, and it made a shiver spiral up the length of his spine.

Vamp closed his eyes.

"I need to sit here a while. I need to be with them. I died here, back then. The Devil got his teeth in me, and he ripped me apart. I need to see if any of the pieces are left."

"I'll stay with you, if you want."

"Go on back to the hotel, Ingenue. It's all right."

"I'll stay with you."

Raiden shifted so he was seated on the top step. He drew his legs up to his chest.

Vamp reached out, brushing the back of Raiden's hand with his knuckles. "Sorry to worry you. I'll be fine, though."

He turned his hand, catching hold of Vamp's. "That doesn't sound like you at all. I like you better when you're being a pompous asshole."

"Fuck you, Jack."

Raiden laughed, and it sounded very loud, but he wasn't embarrassed.

He leaned against Vamp's shoulder. "Maybe next time…" he started to say, but he didn't know how to finish.


	28. Chapter 28

"The past isn't dead," Vulich said, stirring his tea with a thoughtful flourish. "Sometimes, it isn't even past. Do you agree, Nikolai?"

Kolya wrinkled his nose a little. "If you say so, Lieutenant."

The kid had been hanging around a lot lately, Vulich thought, keeping an eye on him. He hadn't been subtle about it, but then, Vulich wasn't sure a guileless boy like that would even know how.

"Why do you always agree with me?" Vulich asked idly.

"You are a commanding officer."

"That doesn't mean I'm right. You ought to stop and think more often. You can't always trust authority, you know."

"I trust you, Lieutenant."

Vulich sniffed disdainfully.

"…besides, you'd get mad at me if I said you were wrong."

"I would do no such thing, Nikolai."

Kolya laughed, and came out of the little tiled alcove that formed the kitchen. He sat in the chair on the other side of the table, facing Vulich. "I've seen you get mad before."

"Nonsense."

Kolya tapped a fingertip thoughtfully against the tabletop. "One time, Vassily Steppanovich asked you when you were going to return those missiles to Cuba, and you broke his nose."

"Vassily Steppanovich was being disrespectful."

"I thought he was just joking," Kolya muttered. "I laughed."

"Did you know, in the 40s, a government propaganda agency wrote and distributed anti-Soviet jokes? The idea was to let men work out their aggressions against those in authority through humor."

"That's really cool, Lieutenant. I didn't know that."

Vulich sighed. "What I'm trying to say, Nikolai, is that just because you laugh at a remark does not mean it has no teeth."

"I don't agree," Kolya declared abruptly.

"Really?" Vulich blinked. "Why?"

"I don't know. But I don't." Kolya grinned. "Was that better, Lieutenant? Was that what you wanted?"

"It doesn't count if you don't believe it. Try to have some conviction, Nikolai. I know you'll never be a fighter, but an iron constitution can go a long way towards getting you what you want."

"Oh, I don't want much," Kolya said. But when he noticed Vulich's expression, he straightened a little.

"But I have convictions," he said. "Like, a ton of them."

"Oh really? Like what?"

Vulich sipped his tea. He felt a deep affection for Kolya, almost the same as the fondness he had felt for his younger brother, dead all these long years, the victim of a burst appendix that the doctor had come ten minutes too late to remove. All the same, Kolya's complacency troubled him deeply, for Vulich had known too many men who were undone by complacency. Even his grandfather Oleg, that proud counterrevolutionary, who had survived the Gulag – twenty years at hard labor – and never once recanted the words that had landed him there, even he had conceded. In the end, even he had not put up a fight, when Vulich had packed a single bag and hitched a ride on one of the mining trucks headed north toward the Russian border.

They had corresponded for three years after that, and never once had Oleg mentioned the gun. The Red Army issue that Vulich had taken from his grandfather's trunk, and tucked into the back of his jeans before he left. He had never said a word about it, so great was his apathy.

Vulich looked up at Kolya. The boy's cheeks were hollow, his eyes deeply sunken. His face was more Scandinavian than true Russian. He was from the far north, near the White Sea, and he was a mongrel mix of Finnish and Russian and tribal blood.

"There must be something," Vulich said. "There must be something you believe in."

"I believe in you, Lieutenant."

"Oh, please."

"No, really, I mean it."

"While I appreciate the sentiment, Nikolai, that's absolutely the most nauseating thing you've ever said to me."

"But it's true. I think you're a good Lieutenant. I've seen you fight; I know how brave you can be. When I see how unafraid you are, it makes me feel… like it's dumb to be scared at all."

Vulich was silent for a moment, his hands sliding thoughtfully around the warm cup of tea.

"I never said I wasn't afraid."

"You don't have to," Kolya replied. "Besides, I know the only reason Colonel Gurlukovich took me on was because you asked him to."

"Where did you hear that?"

Kolya shrugged. "Around."

"Listen to me, Nikolai. You are a soldier in this army. I hold you to the same standards as any other man under my command. Just because your duties are different…"

"See, Lieutenant?"

Kolya grinned, showing a few missing teeth. "Colonel Gurlukovich would never have talked like that. So I know I'm here because of you. I never thanked you for that. I guess, I'm probably alive because of what you did back then."

"Ridiculous, Nikolai," Vulich said, but his voice had dropped to almost a whisper. He lowered his eyes, and was suddenly very intrigued by his tea.

"I hope," he said, "that you have some measure of faith in me. I am your commanding officer, after all."

"Are you saying you don't count, then? As a conviction."

"No. I don't count. What's something else you believe?"

"Do you promise you won't get mad?" Kolya said. "Because I'm telling you this as a friend, not as a Lieutenant, okay?"

"What kind of a barbarian do you think I am? Of course I won't get mad at you."

Kolya leaned in close, lowering his voice.

"I think Shalashaska is really nice. I think… he's really on our side."

" _What_?"

Kolya sprang to his feet, stumbling away a few steps. "You said you wouldn't get mad!"

"I didn't think you'd say something so absurd!"

"It's not absurd! I think he's a good man! You're just stubborn. You decided you didn't want to trust him, and so now you never will."

"And give him a chance to stab me in the back as soon as it's turned? He wants us dead, you know. You, and I. All of us. He'll kill us, just for sport, if we let him."

Kolya paled. "How do you know?"

"And don't believe, even for a second, that he did not hold the gun that killed Sergei. And Olga. He won't be satisfied until we're all dead, Nikolai. That's the kind of man he is. I don't know how you can be so naive."

Kolya cringed, and stepped back so his shoulder blades struck the wall. He yelped softly, but the sound was more anguished than afraid. He watched Vulich with a wild, cautious gaze, the eyes of a wild animal lost in a suburban neighborhood.

Vulich sighed, lifting his tea and sipping it. He did not set the cup aside until he was certain his temper had receded some. He had seen Kolya wire a bomb without breaking a sweat many times, and he wished that the boy could carry some of that steadiness over into the rest of his life.

"I am sorry, Nikolai."

Kolya straightened up, though he seemed reluctant to leave the support of the wall at his back. "Lieutenant?"

"I'm not angry," Vulich said. "Are you satisfied? However, I don't think it's prudent to place our faith in someone who isn't a member of our ranks."

"You're saying you don't trust him."

Vulich stood up, and crossed the distance between them to set a hand on Kolya's shoulder companionably. "You shouldn't take it personally. There aren't many people I trust."

Kolya looked up at him. "Do you trust me?"

"Not if you keep talking about Revolver Ocelot, I won't," Vulich said.

With some difficulty, Kolya's lips twitched into a little smile. "Thanks, Lieutenant. It's not like I'm going to start liking him more than you or anything."

"I should hope not," Vulich said haughtily.

Kolya leaned away from the wall, swaying slightly into Vulich's hold. He put his hands out in front of him, splaying the fingers wide, as though, for a moment, he intended to touch him.

"What's this all about?" Vulich said.

Kolya opened his mouth to reply, but he never got a chance.

The sound of breaking glass choked the words in his throat, and all that came out was a startled gasp. He jumped like a housecat, cringing away from Vulich's touch. The Lieutenant turned back, and knelt to pick up the pieces of the shattered teacup from the floor.

"Strange," he said, collecting the shards in one hand. "I thought I had set it back from the edge."

"I thought so, too," Kolya murmured. He hung back, circling at a distance. He seemed reluctant to come any closer.

Vulich glanced up at him. "Are you all right? I was a little startled, too, I admit. Can you find something to mop this up with?"

"Yeah," Kolya whispered.

Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered. Just once, like the contraction of a single heartbeat. Kolya gasped, and flinched as though he expected a blow to fall.

"What's gotten into you, Nikolai?" Vulich said. He lifted the shards of the cup in his hands, putting them on the tabletop.

"Nothing…" Kolya said, but his voice was slick with fear, like a sheen of cold, clammy sweat.

"Doesn't sound like nothing," Vulich said.

Kolya tossed him a towel from the kitchen, and still he hung back, shifting, anxiously from foot to foot. "It just seems like a lot of weird things go on around here. Have you noticed?"

"Weird things?" Vulich echoed skeptically.

"Yeah. You know, flickering lights. Weird noises."

Vulich shrugged. "The generators act up sometimes. And the noises… they could be anything. The air ducts, maybe. There's still a wing of this place under construction, you know."

"I found a dead hornet yesterday."

"So what?"

"It's the middle of winter."

Vulich sighed, and stood up. "Well, then, it should come as no surprise that it was dead, right?"

Kolya looked away. "You don't have to make fun of me, Lieutenant."

"I'm not making fun of you, Nikolai. I'm trying to tell you that you're letting your imagination run away with you. Besides, I thought places needed to have a history before they could be haunted."

"I never said anything about a haunting…"

"You didn't have to," Vulich said. "I know a ghost story when I hear it."

He dropped the damp towel in the sink, and wiped his hands on his uniform. "There are worse things than ghosts in Groznyj Grad, you know. There are things that frighten me more than the walking dead ever could."


	29. Chapter 29

"You're an American, Shalashaska. Surely you are familiar with what Thomas Jefferson said…"

Ocelot sunk a hand in his pocket, running his gloved thumb over the pages of the novel hidden away there, ruffling them. "He said a lot of things, as I understand it. And what makes you think I'm an American?"

He was impatient, and afraid that it showed. Dr. Novikov had called him back to the basement laboratory early, before first light. The boy, Innokenty, was nowhere to be seen, but it was he that Ocelot most needed to speak with.

The note tucked between the pages of Dostoyevsky, the radiation filling the air like poison gas, even the spirits that clung to him beyond death. Innokenty knew the answers to Ocelot's questions, had known them all along; he had just been waiting for him to ask.

"Well," Novikov said. "You're certainly no Russian, are you?"

Ocelot didn't answer right away. He was thinking of the day before, when Lieutenant Vulich had pulled him aside and had told Ocelot that he and Novikov looked the same, uncannily so. He had asked if they were father and son. It was paranoid nonsense; Ocelot knew that he had no children, just as he had no parents, no wife, and no lover. All the same, perhaps Vulich had been on to something.

Looking at Novikov now, in the unnatural light of a dozen computer terminals, was there not something familiar about him? His wheat-colored hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. His sharp cheekbones, the smooth curve of his forehead, patrician nose; those blue eyes, blue like a stream fed by glacial ice.

"Forgive me for saying so, Doctor, but you don't look like the typical Russian yourself."

"That's because I'm not," Novikov replied briskly. "Only my father was Russian. My mother was an American."

"Who were they?" Ocelot asked.

"People of some notoriety, I'm sure. I can't be bothered with finding out the details, though. I never knew them myself. The old men in the smoke filled room never had us formally introduced."

"You're an orphan, then."

"What a quaint word. You're so old-fashioned, Shalashaska."

Ocelot shifted in his seat, his attention drawn by the way Novikov's profile looked just them. Something in the light, something in the angle, was achingly familiar, but the doctor turned away before Ocelot could place it.

"As Americans," Novikov continued, "we ought to be aware of our history. Thomas Jefferson said, 'As long as America has a frontier, there will be a place for misfits and adventurers.' "

"Is that how you see yourself, Doctor? A brave frontiersman?"

"There is no frontier left, Shalashaska. Not a physical one, anyway. People live comfortably in the hottest, most barren deserts, and they build castles of ice to host lavish parties in the middle of frozen wastelands. The earth has been conquered. Contrary to popular belief, space is only a consolation prize. So, we must look elsewhere to exercise our Manifest Destiny."

"And you have something in mind, I'm sure."

"The last frontier to conquer, Shalashaska, is mankind. The means have been given to some of us to tame it. To civilize it."

"Is that what you're doing?"

"Perhaps it is. I have created life, have I not? Matryona thinks and reasons like a human. Kesha taught her everything she knows, and so she is as alive as that boy is. It was a long, difficult labor, but the son has, as last, given birth to the mother."

"Is that all you wanted to tell me, Doctor? That your little science project is finished? It could have waited until morning."

"You weren't asleep anyway," Novikov said confidently, and Ocelot knew then that Vulich was not the only one the young doctor made a habit of spying on. It made him feel cold, and claustrophobic.

"If your work is done," he said evenly, "then you don't have any further need of me."

"Oh, but I do," Novikov said. "Don't worry, I'll let you run back to your little war games soon. You'll be back playing Cowboys and Indians in no time. But first, I thought you might be interested in seeing what all your handiwork has come to."

"My contributions were modest at best, Doctor."

"Perhaps," Novikov said, and his eyes narrowed maliciously. "Perhaps."

Novikov wanted him here for this, Ocelot thought. He wanted him to see this, because he had known all along that Ocelot resented it.

"The Gurlukovich troops," Novikov said abruptly. "What are their numbers like these days?"

"Forty-three men, including Lieutenant Vulich. There's that boy, Nikolai Fyodorvich, too. But he's no soldier."

"Not the force to be reckoned with that it used to be, is it?" Novikov's eyes slid unsubtly back to Ocelot. "But then, what is?"

"I always knew that you brought those soldiers here for a reason," Ocelot said.

"Forgive me, Shalashaska, but I am almost certain it was you who brought them," Novikov replied. "Nevertheless, they serve an important purpose. They may have had a few unfortunate accidents over the past few years, but they haven't lost their edge. Trained by the best, am I correct? To be the best that money can buy."

"I wouldn't underestimate them, if I were you, Doctor."

"I have no intention of it. Many of them are former Spetznaz, that's the rumor, anyway. Tell me, then, Shalashaska, how difficult would it be for a single man to wipe out a force like that? Let's be generous and say an extraordinary man. One such as yourself, or Big Boss."

Ocelot shrugged. "It would take planning, but a single man could conduct an operation like that. He'd need the proper supplies, and proper planning."

"There would be variables, of course," Novikov pressed.

"Not as many as you'd think."

"There would be great danger to the individual."

"Of course, there always is. But I've seen men win against even worse odds. I'd say, forty-eight hours in the field would be enough time."

"Forty-eight hours?" Novikov laughed. "That's not very efficient."

"Are you saying that your Metal Gear could do better?" Ocelot said with a scowl. "Of course, in open combat… But some things require a more delicate touch, you know."

"Don't pout, Shalashaska. It's not very dignified."

Novikov leaned back against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms. A little smile forced the corners of his mouth into unnatural contortions. "Matryona will strike when it's dark," he said. "Shortly before dawn tomorrow. The sun rises later and later these days, let us be sporting and say… 0700 hours? By the time the horizon begins to lighten, the Gurlukovich troops will be dead."

Ocelot was quiet a moment, considering it.

If the machine was as accurate as Novikov said, then it had the potential to be an impressive display. But he would never be able to bring himself to trust a network of fiber optics more than human intuition.

He would never be all right with it.

"I didn't authorize that," Ocelot said at last.

"You're no longer their leader," Novikov replied brightly. "They don't work for you, and you can't protect them. I don't know why you would want to."

"I just don't appreciate decisions being made behind my back."

"Forgive my impudence," Novikov said, and his eyes narrowed coldly. "But they were not your decisions to make."

"What about Lieutenant Vulich?" Ocelot demanded abruptly. Perhaps he imagined it, but he liked to think that Novikov's expression changed a little. A bright flush of color rushed to his pallid cheeks, so that they became hot beneath the cold light of the computer monitors.

"What about him?" Novikov said sharply.

"No need to be shy. I know you spoke with him earlier."

Novikov was quiet for a minute. Ocelot was well acquainted with that breed of tense silence. The doctor knew he had been caught and he was trying to find the most graceful way to extricate himself.

"Well," he said at last. "A single survivor does not automatically render the exercise a failure. Perhaps I'll just maim him."

"That's not very professional. A good soldier would never let personal attachment get in the way of the mission."

"I told you before, I'm not a soldier, Shalashaska. Besides, it might be beneficial to keep him around for a while. Delicate experiments such as these need a control group."

"If you say so," Ocelot conceded. He let the matter go. Any longer, and Novikov might have begun to suspect that there was more at stake than his pride.

"I suppose that's it," the doctor said. He pushed to his feet, and for a moment seemed to be very intrigued by the lines of code scrolling up the monitor beside him. "Shalashaska, you may return early tomorrow if you want to watch the proceedings from here."

"And if I'd rather watch it in person?"

"Of course, it should be perfectly safe above ground. But the view from the security feeds will be much better."

"I don't know about that."

"Still afraid of the ghost in the machine, I see. All the same, it has been a pleasure working with you, but I have to finish the final calibrations. You can see yourself out, can't you?"

"Actually," Ocelot said, before Novikov had quite finished. "I'd like to speak with Innokenty."

Novikov raised a pale eyebrow. "You're quite attached to that boy."

"He's an acquaintance," Ocelot said. "He's seen so many of my battles, I'm almost beginning to feel as though we fought some of them side by side."

"And he's quite attached to you, as well," Novikov finished, as though he hadn't heard.

Ocelot said nothing, but when he didn't lower his eyes right away, Novikov waved vaguely toward one of the apartments branching off the back of the main office.

"Kesha is resting. Don't stay too long. He needs his sleep."

"Of course," Ocelot said.

He knew that Novikov would be watching him when he was with the boy, listening in, but he was not concerned about the doctor learning of the note Innokenty had slipped him. Like an ancient machine grinding to life, it had been difficult to set events in motion, but now it was too late for any of them to change trajectory.

Things would happen as they happened, but in the end, Ocelot would complete his mission. He would complete it, yes, though he knew it would be his last.

Innokenty was sitting on his small bunk when Ocelot entered. His gaze, though fixed on the door, was unfocused and unseeing.

"You're thinking about tomorrow morning," Ocelot said. It wasn't a question.

Innokenty started, as though shaken from a deep sleep.

"Shalashaska?" he murmured. Slowly, he blinked, and his wide blue eyes seemed to draw into focus. "Not exactly. I was… just thinking."

"It's too late to worry about it now. You've done all you can to program the machine. All that's left now is to wait."

Innokenty sighed. "That's not it. I know Matryona will do well. I know she'll be perfect."

"Then what is it?" Ocelot asked.

"I can't say." Innokenty shook his head fiercely. "I can't tell you. I think you wouldn't like it, and I don't want you to be angry with me."

Ocelot crossed the room. It was only three steps from the door to the far wall; smaller, even, than a prison cell. He sat beside Innokenty, and the bunk's tired springs sighed beneath his weight.

"I had a chance to read some of your book last night, Innokenty. Thank you for loaning it to me."

Innokenty looked up at him, and he smiled, though his eyes remained serious. "I wish you'd read it earlier. The part where Ivan sees the Devil, that's my favorite. I wish you'd gotten there before now."

"I know," Ocelot said. "You think it could have made a difference, don't you?"

Innokenty nodded.

"Thanks for thinking of me, kid. It means a lot to an old man."

Innokenty's throat bobbed as if he were trying to say something. Ocelot could see him struggling, looking for the right words, trying to speak his mind without tipping his hand.

He knew that people were listening, too.

"I don't want anything to happen to you, Shalashaska," he said at last. "I'm so sick from the radiation, and I didn't want the same thing to happen to you. I know they didn't give you nanomachines to counteract the poison. Matryona told me."

"That's not important," Ocelot said. "What I need to know, is what's causing the radiation. Why aren't they making any efforts to seal it?"

"There's a reactor," he said. "Near where Matryona lives. Her hangar is sealed, but it doesn't keep all the radiation in because they had to put it in so fast. It wasn't part of the original plans for the base. She needs the radiation to survive. Dr. Novikov said it was like food for her, but that's not quite right. It's more like life support for her animal parts."

Ocelot's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He had known from the beginning that the Metal Gear was partially organic in nature, though Novikov had been very secretive about exactly what that entailed. But now he was beginning to see: Human organs required cellular growth to function properly, and cellular growth was slowed by radiation. Perhaps, Ocelot thought, the Metal Gear's biomechanical portions did not work as well as Novikov would have liked them to believe. Perhaps they replicated too quickly on the cellular level.

Perhaps Matryona was afflicted by a kind of slow sickness, a cancer.

"He's going to kill us all, just to make sure his machine is a success," Ocelot said.

He was surprised to find that he wasn't angry at Novikov for that. He didn't resent him; didn't even think he was insane. The young doctor had simply done what was necessary to succeed, and that was always admirable. For the first time, Ocelot thought he might have been able to respect the man.

Innokenty was shaking his head. "I don't know," he said, but Ocelot could tell that wasn't true. "I don't know. He thinks it can't hurt him. He thinks we're all safe because we have the nanomachines. But machines don't always work, Shalashaska. They don't always do what they're supposed to, after this long."

"Don't worry," Ocelot assured him. "Novikov won't let you die. You're much too important to his work."

"Can I ask you a question, Shalashaska?"

"Sure, kid."

Innokenty looked down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap, and for a long time he was quiet. Ocelot had just begun to wonder if he had slipped into another one of his trances, when Innokenty finally spoke.

"How do you know when you've done the right thing?"

Ocelot almost laughed, but thought better of it. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Innokenty said, "I think it was right to help Matryona like I did. I think it was right to teach her. Because before I did that she never talked to me, but afterwards, she did. But I don't know if it's right, what Dr. Novikov wants to do."

"You mean to test the machine?"

Innokenty nodded. "If Matryona only kills the badguys, then that's good, right? But the Gurlukovich troops, they're on our side, so I don't understand why Dr. Novikov would want to kill them."

He looked up at Ocelot. "Do you see?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes, I see. But things are more complicated than you think, Innokenty. It's more than just a question of who's on your side. Just because the Gurlukovich troops are guarding this base, doesn't mean they have the same objectives in mind as you, or I, or Dr. Novikov. Affiliations like that change all the time."

"But yours never did. You always worked for…" Innokenty trailed off there, and paused. "You know who I mean. You only pretended to be allied with Sergei Gurlukovich, and FOXHOUND, and Big Boss, right?"

Ocelot winced a little at the name. Even after all these years, it was a sore spot. A wound that had never quite healed. "Like I said, it's more complicated than that. I didn't start working with any of them knowing I would have to betray them in the end."

It was a lie, but a familiar one, with a weight as comfortable to Ocelot as one of his antique revolvers.

"It's just business," he continued. "Those Gurlukovich soldiers, they know what they're doing. They know the risks. Don't feel so bad for them. It was their choice to be here."

"I didn't want to kill anyone…" Innokenty said softly.

"You won't be," Ocelot said. "You're not killing anyone. You only helped build the gun. When the time comes, just close your eyes and pull the trigger."

"I understand," Innokenty replied. "I'll try, Shalashaska, but I don't think I'm as tough as you."

"You'll be all right. After tomorrow, nothing will be the same."

Ocelot reached out, unsure at first of what he intended to do. But he slipped an arm around Innokenty's shoulders, drawing the boy against his side in a half-hearted embrace.

Innokenty surprised him by not resisting at all. His head sagged limply against Ocelot's shoulder, and he was quiet. Waiting, Ocelot was certain, to be pushed away.

"Kid?" Ocelot said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"What's it mean? 'Fear death by water.' "

Innokenty turned a little in Ocelot's grip, looking up at him. Then, abruptly, he pulled away, slithering out of Ocelot's grip and sliding to the other end of the bed.

A moment later, the door swung open, and Novikov stood framed in the doorway, a look of weary indulgence in his eyes.

"All right, Kesha," he said. "I think it's time you let Shalashaska go, don't you think?"

"It's all right," Ocelot said.

Novikov's gaze sharpened on him, and in an instant all the good humor vanished from his eyes. "The boy needs his rest," he said pointedly. "He has a big day tomorrow."

Ocelot glanced back at Innokenty. The boy was watching him very closely, though his expression betrayed nothing.

"You're right," Ocelot said, pushing to his feet. The old joints in his knees creaked, and his back was stiff and took a moment to straighten.

"You're right, of course. Good day, Innokenty."


	30. Chapter 30

Major Ocelot was not a slave to his emotion, but this had not always been the case. When he was a boy, he'd had his share of passionate outbursts, but he was not a boy any longer. He was nineteen; nearly twenty, and so there was no reason for Raikov to be able to unsettle him like he did.

It had been easy for him, though; he had just smiled. The same sad, sweet smile as always, and told Ocelot to come by his room tonight. Come by, and let Raikov apologize to him.

The way he had said it, Ocelot could have believed it meant nothing. Not so long ago, he might have thought that it was easy for Raikov, but Ocelot had learned over the months that followed their first meeting, Raikov didn't give himself freely, casually. No, he was not the man Ocelot had first taken him to be. He was hard as ice, but he knew when to yield easily as a reed. It had been part of his training, but it came naturally to him as well. Ocelot could not help but wonder how young Raikov had been when he had learned that, in bending himself, he could make others bow as well.

It may have been easy for him, but it was not so for Ocelot. He would never admit it, of course. He would never tell anyone that the way Raikov touched him, the easiest and most casual of caresses, was sometimes enough to make him shiver.

Ocelot was not an inexperienced lover. There were women who had taken an interest in him: hard, worldly, beautiful older women, who only laughed at his rebuffs and teased him mercilessly. When he couldn't avoid them any longer, he took them to bed and gave them no reason to complain, but he had never really understood the ritual. To Ocelot, kissing was just something silly two people could do with their mouths. Fucking was only a way to break a sweat.

But he saw how Raikov could bring a man like Volgin to his knees with a smile and a wink. He could drop him in his tracks with just a toss of yellow hair, not so different from the way Ocelot could with a bullet.

Ocelot didn't want to want him. He was tired of this game.

He winced when he realized he could almost hear Raikov's laugh. He could almost see the way his eyebrows would tilt up curiously, his mouth tighten into a little pout, if Ocelot ever said those words aloud.

"So stop," would be all Raikov would say. "Just stop."

Because, to a man like that, it was just that easy.

***

By the time he was outside Raikov's door, Ocelot was already angry. He had been thinking about this moment for too long. He was frustrated, and he hadn't even seen the Major yet. There was no doubt in his mind, though, that he would let it come to pass.

It was late, and the halls of Groznyj Grad were empty. Only the dim blue emergency lights were on, and even the faint, persistent hum of machinery had been quieted for the night.

Ocelot raised his hand to knock on Raikov's door, then he hesitated, and reached for the knob instead. It turned in his hand, and the door swung open.

"Adamska." Raikov's voice was turned as low as the lights. "You came."

His back was to Ocelot, but he wasn't so far away. Ocelot would have only had to reach out, and his hands would be around Raikov's waist.

He didn't reach for him, though. He only shut the door, silently, like the door of a tomb. "How did you know it was me?" he asked quietly.

"Who else would it be?"Raikov turned in a neat pirouette and sat back on the bed. He looked up at Ocelot from beneath his lashes.

"You tell me," Ocelot said.

Raikov just giggled. "Silly boy…"

"Volgin, maybe?"

"No." Raikov shook his head. His hair bobbed around his face. "He won't come for me tonight. He works hard these days. He hardly ever comes anymore."

"You sound disappointed."

"Not exactly," Raikov said. "But it gets lonely sometimes."

He opened the drawer next to the bed, and his hand dipped inside. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tossing them gently to Ocelot. "We all like some things that aren't so good for us."

Ocelot said nothing until he had opened the pack and slipped a cigarette between his lips. "I didn't come here to talk about Volgin."

"I know," Raikov said softly. "You came for me."

Ocelot struck a match and raised it, slowly, to his cigarette. He took a deep drag – so deep it made his lungs ache, like the lump that rose in his throat when Raikov looked at him with that tiny knowing smile on his lips.

"Maybe I did," Ocelot said at last.

Raikov didn't take his eyes from Ocelot's. He pushed steadily to his feet, and reached for the top button of his uniform coat.

He flicked open the buttons quickly, slipped out of the coat and tossed it over a chair. A moment later, his tie crumpled beside it. He was reaching for the collar of his shirt when Ocelot shook his head.

"Wait," he said, and then his hands were around Raikov's wrists, stilling him.

Raikov raised an eyebrow, but he said nothing. He was tense against Ocelot's grip, though he didn't fight him.

"How can you be so casual?" Ocelot asked at last. His cigarette smoldered between two fingers. He had angled it out and away so it wouldn't burn Raikov while he held him.

Raikov's lips moved slightly, and for a moment Ocelot was sure the Major was going to laugh at him. But then he only leaned forward onto his toes and pressed a kiss to Ocelot's mouth.

"I forget sometimes," he said quietly, "what kind of man you are, Adamska. Thanks for reminding me."

He stepped back, extracting himself gracefully from Ocelot's slackened grip.

"What kind of man am I?" Ocelot said.

"A good one."

Ocelot stepped forward, and Raikov tilted his face up for a kiss. They came together, Ocelot wrapping his arms around Raikov's waist, tugging him up on his toes.

Raikov's hands fluttered over Ocelot's chest and shoulders. He seemed surprised that he didn't need to pull Ocelot closer.

He could give himself over to this man, Ocelot decided. Not for the night, but for an hour, perhaps; no longer than that. He still wasn't sure whether this was business or pleasure for Raikov, but if he tried hard enough he could pretend it didn't matter.

"You trust me," Raikov breathed against Ocelot's damp lips.

It wasn't a question.

"I have to, don't I?" Ocelot said.

"You don't." Raikov smiled, and his hands moved for the buttons of Ocelot's coat. "But you should."

Ocelot took another drag from his cigarette and tossed the rest away. His eyes followed Raikov's hands as they wove the intricate pattern of undressing him.

It was cold, but he did not shiver as Raikov opened his coat and eased it back over his shoulders.

"Touch me," Raikov whispered, and turned his face up so their eyes met. His hands lingered on Ocelot's cravat, fingers cutting grooves into the rich fabric. "You never touch me."

If Raikov's expression hadn't been so serious, Ocelot would have been sure the Major was making fun of him. He sighed, and he was very aware of Raikov's weight pressing against his chest. He lifted his hands, and they hovered for a moment, fluttering like red moths, before coming to rest on Raikov's hips.

"There…" Ocelot breathed. He stroked his thumbs along the sharp ridges of Raikov's hipbones, and dug his fingers in possessively.

Raikov gasped, leaning in to his touch. He flicked his wrist, unknotting Ocelot's cravat with a flourish, and tossing it aside. Ocelot tugged the tails of Raikov's shirt out of his uniform pants, and began to unbutton it while Raikov's hands moved back to his throat, tugging at his top button. His hands moved down Ocelot's chest, easing his shirt open as he went. They met in the middle, and their hands tangled for a moment.

When Ocelot raised his eyes to Raikov's, his head spun, as though he stood on the edge of some great precipice. Slightly unbalanced, poised to fall.

Raikov extracted his hands easily, and finished with Ocelot's buttons. It wasn't until he reached to ease the shirt off his shoulders that Ocelot shuddered, and remembered to move again."It's cold in here."

Raikov smiled faintly. He trailed his gloved hands down Ocelot's chest. "They say it's going to snow," he whispered, and looked up. "It's really going to come down."

Ocelot took Raikov's hands, pulling off his gloves. They were made of fine, smooth leather of much higher quality than Ocelot's own gloves. But they were still cool to the touch, and when they brushed Ocelot's bare skin, they made him think of the hands of a corpse.

"We should get in bed," Raikov said. He folded his gloves over, setting them aside. "It'll be warmer."

Ocelot's eyes lingered on Raikov for a moment, as he circled around him and sat down on the edge of the bed. Raikov reached over, and flipped off the light. The darkness was sudden, but not absolute. The floodlights from the courtyard spilled in through the small window, cutting pale gashes across the floor and turning Raikov's white skin a sickly shade of yellow. Above the door, the blue emergency light glared like an unblinking eye.

Raikov shook his hair back, and reached for the top button of his shirt. He was holding back, restraining himself. Ocelot had been certain that, after so many weeks, Raikov would be more eager, but he was solemn as a prisoner on the eve of execution. He shouldn't have looked like that, Ocelot thought. And as he watched Raikov undress in the dim light, he tried to think of something to say. A way to tell him that he had not come here on business, and Raikov didn't have to treat it like a suicide mission.

Raikov shed his dress shirt. He wore nothing underneath, which didn't surprise Ocelot. His eyes roamed over the Major's body, admiring his trim build. He was stronger than Ocelot had expected, more solidly muscled, but his muscles followed a different pattern than Ocelot was familiar with. Most of the soldiers he knew were strong and compact, built for brute strength and endurance; the kind of bodies that came from too much hard work and not quite enough food to go around. Compared to them, Raikov was lithe and supple like a dancer or a gymnast. It was as though he had agonized over every curve and bend, like a sculptor agonizes over a block of perfect granite.

Raikov glanced up at him as he reached for his low-slung belt, and his face softened into a smile. "Stop staring," he murmured. "You make me nervous."

Ocelot stiffened, embarrassed that he had been caught.

"Sorry," he said, and looked away. He shrugged out of his shirt and tossed it aside. His red gloves followed a moment later. He turned onto his back, and loosened his belt, but couldn't bring himself to part with the pants just yet.

He could hear the soft rustle of fabric as Raikov undressed, but he kept his eyes focused on the ceiling, not about to be scolded again, but when the sounds of movement stopped and still Raikov didn't join him, Ocelot chanced a quick glance at him.

The Major was standing at the single window, looking out over the courtyard. The glass was a dingy yellow, and a frame of white condensation had already begin to creep from the edges of the frame inward.

"What are you looking at?" Ocelot asked, propping himself up on one elbow.

Raikov turned towards him. Outside, one of the searchlights shifted, swinging toward the building, and for a moment Raikov was haloed in bright white light, silhouetted in an otherworldly glow. His skin was bleached of all color, and his hair was a silver corona around his face. His feet, lost in the shadows, seemed to not even touch the ground.

Then, the searchlight swung away again, and the illusion was lost. It took Ocelot's eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, and when they did, Raikov was already coming towards him. His bare feet made no sound. The bed didn't even creak when he swung one leg over Ocelot's hips, straddling him.

He eased himself down, settling his weight on Ocelot's thighs. He dragged his hands down Ocelot's chest, curving them so he could feel the bite of well-manicured nails.

"You're quiet tonight," Ocelot said, reaching up to cup Raikov's face in one hand. The Major turned his head slightly. For a moment, Ocelot thought that he meant to pull away, but he only nuzzled against Ocelot's palm, pressing his lips to the fleshy part where thumb and wrist joined.

"Nothing to say," Raikov whispered, and bent down for a kiss. Though his movements were languid and unhurried, his lips were demanding.

"I'm glad you came tonight, Adamska," he said, turning so he could nibble Ocelot's ear. His tongue flicked out, tracing the gentle curve. His breathed a sigh, a cool gust of air over the skin he had just dampened."I thought I might go mad. Not for want of you exactly, but for lack of you."

Ocelot felt his cock twitch in response, pressing up toward the warmth of Raikov's body.

Raikov's lips were on his throat, sucking at the sensitive spot where neck and shoulder joined. They were following the downward slant of his collarbone, they were easing down his chest. Slow, painfully slow, as though they had all the time in the world together. Raikov paused long enough to close his mouth around a small, tight nipple, and Ocelot shivered, arching his back and letting his breath out in a shaky sigh.

"Yeah…" Raikov whispered, and Ocelot couldn't be sure if it was a question or not.

"Yeah," he replied, and Raikov moved again, surging up into a deep kiss. His hands combed down Ocelot's body, finding his belt and flicking it open.

"You didn't even take your boots off," Raikov said, and of course he was right.

"I didn't think about it," Ocelot said. He began to sit up, reaching for them.

"No." Raikov pushed him back, leaning down for another searing kiss. Ocelot was left lightheaded, as though from oxygen deprivation. "Leave them on. It'll be easier to kick me when I'm down."

Ocelot didn't ask what he meant by that, because by then Raikov was already flicking open the front of his pants and easing his cock free. Ocelot closed his eyes, so Raikov couldn't see the surprise in them. He was hard in only a few strokes, and Raikov cradled him in his hands, stroking the tip of one finger slowly along the vein that ran along the underside of his cock.

He was admiring him, Ocelot thought. He knew he had a nice cock. It was long and straight, not as thick as some, but well-proportioned. He wondered idly, morbidly, how he compared to Raikov's last lover. But when he opened his eyes again, and his gaze met Raikov's, Ocelot knew that Volgin was the last thing on the Major's mind.

Raikov shifted down, crawling back in bed and lowering himself onto all fours. One hand closed around Ocelot's cock at the base, and he lowered his mouth to wet the tip.

"Shit…" Ocelot groaned. "Don't do that."

Raikov's lips quirked into a tiny smile, and then they parted and took him in. Ocelot felt the roof of Raikov's mouth glide past the head of his cock, and then the softer tissue of his throat close around him. The Major's gag reflex was nonexistent, and Ocelot let out his breath in a sharp sigh. His head fell back, and his fingers tangled in the bed sheets, drawing them up into strange contortions, impossible new landforms. Raikov pulled back, until only his lips were pressed in a gentle kiss to the tip of Ocelot's cock, then he surged forward, taking him in again so that Ocelot was sheathed in the slick humidity of his mouth.

Ocelot whimpered softly. It was unmanly to cry out, and whorish to moan. Both were beneath him, but it didn't stop him from wanting to. His throat was sore with praise and pleading, but he bit his lip and held it in.

When Raikov released him, it was both too soon and not soon enough.

He licked his lips, dampening them, and he swallowed hard to get his saliva moving again.

"Do you want me, Adamska?" he whispered, shifting up so his knees were once again on either side of Ocelot's hips; his body was poised over him. His cock curved out elegantly in front of him. Hard as he was, he looked not half as desperate as Ocelot felt.

Ocelot nodded.

"Then say the word," Raikov said.

He hesitated, looking the Major over in one more sweeping glance. With his knees spread apart and his long thighs tapering upward, Raikov's hips looked narrower than usual. His waist seemed small to the point of consumptive. His head was thrown back and his blond hair was in a state of disarray so artful that Ocelot could almost imagine he had planned it.

In his heart, Ocelot know it was the only time he would ever see Raikov like this.

Hereached out, setting his hands on Raikov's hips to steady him. The Major's eyes flashed with what might have been lust, or something easy to mistake for it.

"Please?" Ocelot said, and Raikov smiled. He reached down to grip Ocelot's cock at the base, and eased himself down onto it. His cock was still slick from Raikov's mouth, but Ocelot didn't think that would be enough to slide into him comfortably. Raikov gave only an initial murmur of discomfort, however, and his fingers twitched once against Ocelot's shoulders, and then Ocelot was inside him.

Raikov leaned over him, bracing his forearms against the wall. He began to move, slowly at first, but more quickly when Ocelot rose to meet him. He was different than the women Ocelot had been with. Quieter, almost silent, so that the only sounds were the sharp hiss of breath and the wet noise of skin on skin. He shuddered slightly with each thrust, as though Ocelot was hurting him.

Maybe, Ocelot thought, he was. At that realization, the pit of his stomach tightened minutely. He knew that it took more work to prepare a man than a woman, but Raikov was experienced, and, except for the slight tension around his eyes, he was unhesitant. Perhaps he liked a little pain with his pleasure. Perhaps it made it more real for him, the way that bruises were sometimes the only way to remember a fight the next morning.

Ocelot raised himself on one elbow, keeping the other one around Raikov's waist to steady him.

Raikov lowered his face for a kiss, and his hands fell to Ocelot's shoulders. His slender arms wrapped around his neck, clinging to him.

"Adamska…" he murmured, and Ocelot jerked him into another bruising kiss, before he had a chance to speak. Raikov shifted his weight back to accommodate them better, and his body trembled with an unvoiced moan. Ocelot plunged the fingers of one hand into his wild, silvery hair, jerking Raikov's head back and baring his throat. His lips found the side of Raikov's neck, and he sucked savagely, raising dark bruises on his pale skin. Raikov shuddered, and he breathed a soft, hoarse cry. He drove his hips down, drawing Ocelot in as deeply as he could.

Ocelot felt Raikov's internal muscles flex and tighten around him, and a moment later a hot splash of liquid tattooed his chest.

Raikov began to relax, and Ocelot had to hold his hips steady while he thrust up into him a few more times. There was a throbbing ache in the pit of his stomach. Ocelot curled forward against Raikov's body, sinking his teeth into the Major's shoulder to stifle a cry as he came.

They stayed twined together for a moment, Raikov's sharp little nails digging into Ocelot's skin, one hand on his shoulder, the other at the small of his back. Ocelot's grip on the Major's waist was tight enough to cut bruises.

He was still inside him when Raikov at least loosened his hold and leaned back a little.

"Adamska," he said. And that was all. Just a name, with no intrinsic meaning other than what Raikov chose to attach to it.

"Ivan," Ocelot replied. Even now, his voice was clipped and formal, as though he were asking the Major a question of strategy. As if they had never shed their uniforms.

Raikov smiled, but he looked tired. He tried to swing one leg over Ocelot's body and pull away, but Ocelot didn't let him. He seized the Major around the waist, pulling him down to the bed. It was a small mattress, a tight fit, but Ocelot twined his body around Raikov's until they found room for them both.

Ocelot touched Raikov's face, stroking his hair back. He leaned in and kissed him: gently, without his earlier violence and urgency.

"You liked that?" Raikov asked with weary, brittle humor.

"It was good," Ocelot said, and he moved close again, giving himself over to Raikov's mouth and his soft, exploring hands.

Neither of them looked up for some time, but when they did, Raikov's gaze strayed.

It had begun to snow. There was no wind, and the fat flakes fluttered unhurriedly past the single small window. They couldn't see outside from where they lay, but the lights in the courtyard cast a tableau of snow shadows against the opposite wall.

Raikov watched in silence for a moment.

"What's wrong?" Ocelot said.

"Look. Even the snow here is gray."

He looked back, and responded to Ocelot's quizzical look with a sharp kiss. "Stay here. I'll get you something so you can clean up."

"It's cold."

"I won't be gone long."

Raikov hopped out of bed, darting to the small chest of drawers. He pulled one open, and tossed a clean towel to Ocelot.

On the way back, he stopped again at the window, and looked out. The glass had steamed over completely by now, and it was impossible to see out.

"What are you looking for?" Ocelot asked, raising himself on one elbow. "There's nothing out there."

"You don't know that."

"Come back to bed," Ocelot said, and after a moment he added. "Vanya."

Raikov's expression leapt with surprise, but he seemed pleased by the casual use of the diminutive. He lifted one hand, and it drew two lazy 'S' curves on the window.

"What are you doing?"

Raikov shook his head, and as he came back to bed, the searchlight shifted again, shining fully on Raikov's window. The light filtered differently through the parts of the glass that had condensed over, and the parts where Raikov had wiped the fog away.

It wasn't until Ocelot looked again at the far wall that he understood.

There was a heart projected on the plaster, slightly brighter than the light around it. It was crude and rushed, like a child might draw.

The searchlight swung away again, and the illusion was lost. Ocelot knew that by the time it came back, the window would have fogged over completely once more.

He looked up as Raikov approached, and reached up to draw him back to bed. "Don't be cute," he said, but he was smiling as he eased Raikov down into a kiss.


	31. Chapter 31

"Don't turn on the light," said a voice in the darkness.

Ocelot paused, his hand on the switch that would have set the fluorescent panels overhead flickering to life. A knot of cold dread gripped his stomach momentarily, but, no, those words did not crackle in the air around his ears like electricity. The room was not warm, but it was untouched by the unmistakable cold of the grave.

"Shut the fucking door and come over here."

The voice was taut now, like an overworked muscle, and annoyed. Ocelot recognized it immediately this time.

He said nothing, but he did shut the door behind himself and crossed the tiled floor to join Vulich next to the window that faced out over the courtyard. It was full dark outside. Though there was no moon, the searchlights lit the pavement as bright as day.

This was the first time Ocelot had left his quarters since early that morning. He had retired to his rooms after speaking with Novikov and Innokenty. There had been little for him to do in the way of planning, but it had felt good to be alone with his thoughts. Even Raikov had seemed to know that he enjoyed the solitude. Ocelot had not felt his presence since the night before. Though he knew he was never truly alone, he could do without the interruptions sometimes. When evening came, Ocelot had tried to sleep for a while, but strange dreams had awakened him. So he had wandered here, to the main room where the soldiers sometimes congregated during the day. It should have been empty at this hour, but Ocelot was unsurprised that it was not.

Vulich didn't look at him as he approached. He was watching the courtyard beyond the window, his breath staining the dirty glass with fog every time he exhaled.

He was tense, Ocelot noticed, and intent.

"Look out there," he said quietly.

"Lieutenant…" Ocelot chuckled.

"Look out there!" he said again, and this time it was an order.

Ocelot's expression soured, but he turned to face the window. "What am I looking at?"

"By the fence," Vulich said. "Do you see that empty trailer out there?"

"Yes," Ocelot said.

"Look to the left. Close to the ground."

Ocelot swept his eyes over the tarmac. He saw nothing at first except for the black asphalt intermittently cut by white heaps of snow, and he almost looked past the strange halo of light, almost dismissed it as an illusion.

But then he saw it move.

For a long while, Ocelot said nothing. He studied the hovering glow in silence. It hung in the air, perhaps a foot off the ground. It was taller than it was wide; an oval, rather than a perfect circle. Though it was translucent enough that Ocelot could make out the shape of the fence behind it, there was a distinctly blue cast to the light. It was flecked by beams of darker indigo. They lashed across its surface, flickering like currents of electricity arced between circuits.

"Do you see it now?" Vulich said. "Do you see it too?"

"I see it."

"So what is it? I've been watching it for almost an hour now. It hasn't moved. It just sits there like that. Sometimes it's brighter; sometimes you can hardly see it at all."

"Something wrong with the fence," Ocelot said, as though that would convince Vulich. "A malfunction."

"No," Vulich replied. "It's not that."

Ocelot frowned but made no reply. He turned back to the window, and watched the slowly pulsating light in silence for a while. Vulich had been right. It did grow brighter on occasion, and then dim again. At its most intense, Ocelot could see that the small pebbles and bits of debris that littered the blacktop hovered slightly above the ground near the lowest point of the sphere.

"There's something wrong with this place," Vulich said at last.

Ocelot glanced towards him and wished that the lights were brighter. He couldn't make out Vulich's face, and he suddenly, desperately, wanted to. He wondered if the man's skin would be paler, if there would be spots of bright feverish color on his cheeks.

Those were telltale signs of radiation poisoning.

Vulich must have been feeling it. He hadn't been inoculated either, none of the Gurlukovich troops had. The effects would have begun to show in all of them. Nausea and weakness. Pain in the joints.

Insomnia.

The Lieutenant would be calling it altitude sickness or exhaustion. He wouldn't admit that anything was wrong, even as his flesh hemorrhaged and his hair fell out in clumps.

Not, Ocelot reminded himself, that he would live long enough for that happen.

Novikov had told him that this man would be dead by morning. Ocelot wasn't sure he believed that, though. He had, after all, known obsession before, and when he had been Novikov's age the man who had so fascinated him had been the only thing that mattered in the world.

"Do you think so?" Ocelot said neutrally.

"Things happen here that I can't explain," Vulich admitted. "If you'd told me a week ago that I would be standing here in the dark, too nervous to turn around and see what's behind me…"

"You would have thought it sounded crazy," Ocelot said.

"It does sound crazy," Vulich snapped. "But today, in the hall… I heard someone say my name. It wasn't a whisper, and it didn't sound far away. It was like someone following me right at my shoulder had spoken right in my ear. I turned around, and there was nothing. But before I could even turn back, I heard it again. Just over my left shoulder, right in my ear. It was so close, I could feel breath on my neck. That voice… it called me Alyosha."

"Cute," Ocelot said dryly.

"No one has called me that since I was a boy. Only my older sister, my father, and…"

"Who?" prodded Ocelot, when Vulich hesitated.

"My grandfather," Vulich said at last. "It was his voice. Even though I haven't been home in a long time, I knew it at once. But my grandfather has been dead for years now. I kept still after that. I could feel someone moving behind me, but he didn't say more. It was like he had forgotten why he had come. After a few minutes, he was gone."

"Was there anything else?" Ocelot said.

Vulich was quiet for a moment, perhaps gauging Ocelot's sincerity. Perhaps trying to decide how much he should reveal.

"It was cold," he said at last. "Deeply cold. I could see my breath. And the lights dimmed. It stayed like that, until he went away again."

Ocelot nodded slowly. "It's unusual that he was able to find you. You must have been very close to your grandfather. Even then, that's not always enough. But you carry his gun, don't you?"

"I always have," Vulich said.

"If that pistol was important to both of you it might have helped."

"How do you know all this?" Vulich demanded.

Ocelot smiled faintly. "What kind of self-respecting Communist believes in ghosts, Lieutenant?"

"One who's seen what I have," Vulich said sharply.

"Sometimes," Ocelot said, "it's not so bad to have a little faith. It's easier to believe in things like that - things that can't be explained - than it is to trust in the machinations of men."

"What do you know about it?"

"I know they won't hurt you," Ocelot said. "They can't. The worst they can do is make a nuisance of themselves. It's not so unusual to see them, or hear them. Most people will, at least once. Don't try to talk to them, though. They don't have much to say."

Vulich glanced out the window, toward the end of the courtyard where the strange light had been. "Look. It's gone now."

"It's this place," Ocelot said. "It's not exactly why they come, but it's not exactly driving them away, either."

"Groznyj Grad, you mean? I know the original burned in the 60s. This is just a reproduction…"

"More than that," Ocelot said. "It's an exact replica, built from the original blueprints. Even the materials were salvaged from the site of the original fortress."

"But why?"

"To cut down on the paper trail. The less material produced, the fewer people who knew about the construction. But places have memories, too, Lieutenant. And this building has a particularly keen one."

Vulich said nothing for a while. His gaze strayed back to the window. "Where do you think it went?" he said quietly.

Ocelot shrugged. "Probably not too far."

"Will it be back?"

"Are you going to keep watch all night if I say yes?"

"If I don't," Vulich said, "then who will?"

Ocelot smiled, but he was disturbed. He didn't know when this man had come to remind him so much of Jack. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on; they did not look alike or talk alike, and Vulich was younger now then Big Boss had been when Ocelot had first known him. It wasn't a physical similarity; it was something intangible; something like a throwaway phrase, the inflection on a word, a faraway stare that seemed to see visions other men could not.

There was a certain quality that they both shared, one so rare that it almost never occurred in nature. When it did, it was worthy of attention. Ocelot had never been trained to look for it, but he almost always noticed it in a person.

"There is one other thing," Vulich said, hesitantly.

"What is it?"

When he didn't reply immediately, Ocelot laughed. "You look like you need a Confessor. I'm not ordained, but you can make your peace with me."

"I saw a woman," Vulich said. His expression was hard, but only because he forced it to be that way. "A dead woman. I think there's something far more unsettling about a dead woman walking the halls at night than a dead man. Don't you?"

"I don't know," Ocelot admitted. He had lived a long life, but he could count the number of women he had known well on one gloved hand.

"We were close," Vulich continued, though he didn't seem entirely certain.

"Of course you were," Ocelot said. "You always did seem like the type to fall in love with the first woman who fucked you, Lieutenant."

Vulich was uncharacteristically quiet. Ocelot couldn't see it in the darkness, but he was certain the Lieutenant was blushing.

"Or am I wrong?" Ocelot smirked.

"Yes, you're wrong," Vulich snapped. "You don't know everything, you know."

"But what makes you think I don't know about you? We are not enemies, Lieutenant."

"No?" Vulich said. "You have a funny way of showing friendship then."

"I didn't say we were friends, either."

"Neither did I," Vulich muttered. He turned back to the window, and seemed more nervous now that the phantom had vanished than when it had been there.

He paused, rubbing his jaw as if it ached, but Ocelot knew it was a troubled affectation.

John- Snake- had had those too.

"…She wasn't the first."

"Pardon?"

Ocelot couldn't quite make out the words, and was annoyed at his age, until it occurred to him that Vulich might have mumbled.

"She wasn't _the first_ ," Vulich repeated, stubbornly, at last, with the air of a wolfhound finally relinquishing a guarded piece of meat. His eyes met Ocelot's, smoldering with misplaced outrage. "I'm not a charity case, Shalashaska. Never have been."

"Then why is it so hard for you to talk about?"

Vulich's eyes narrowed. "I think that's part of what she liked about me."

He glanced away before he went on.

"That's not the right word. Liked. I was just a decision for her, not an impulse. Something she thought instead of felt. She knew I wouldn't talk about what we'd done. She always pretended she didn't care what anyone thought, but it would have bothered her if people knew. She would have been embarrassed."

"At least you two couldn't be accused of having nothing in common," Ocelot said.

"We got along. I was flattered that she thought I was the best solution to her problem. She was a Russian, and I think it annoyed her when I wouldn't drink with her. But it was a good two weeks. An admirable campaign."

"Why did she leave?"

"How did you know she was the one who left?"

"Come now," Ocelot said. "Can you really imagine her talking about you the same way you talk about her?"

"She's dead now," Vulich replied coldly. There was a slight tremor in his voice, but Ocelot could not tell if it was regret or righteous anger that quavered the words. Perhaps, for Vulich, there was no difference between the two. "I told you that."

Ocelot just smirked. "Then there's nothing wrong with talking about it now, is there?"

Vulich sighed.

"One day, she stopped coming to find me. I didn't know if I was supposed to pursue her, or stay out of her way. But when her father died, she made the decision for me. She took over for him, and there was no time for anything else."

Ocelot glanced up sharply at the words.

"And that's all?" he said, though it was more like a demand.

"That's all," Vulich said tersely. "If there was anything else… she didn't want me to know about it."

It was a strange way of putting it, and Ocelot took note of it. As though there was something more to the story, something that Vulich would never dare speak aloud.

"Did she say anything to you?" Ocelot said. "Earlier today, I mean. Did you hear her voice?"

Vulich shook his head.

"I saw her," he said, quietly. "But I don't think she saw me. She wasn't here about that. I think she was looking for something."

Ocelot had engineered coincidences for so many years, he no longer believed that they could occur in a natural state. Divine intervention was as artificial to him as a genetically modified apple tree or a lab rat with a human ear growing from its back.

Or, for that matter, a machine that thought like a human being.

"Look," Vulich said. "Look out there."

"Hmm?" Ocelot turned, following Vulich's gaze. Across the yard there was a ghostly blue glow, the color of a dirty halo. It was the same light as before, but there was something different about it this time. Something that seemed to stare back at them.

"It's closer now, isn't it?" Vulich said.

"Hush," Ocelot said.

The light winked out again, and reappeared a moment later. This time it had moved, he was sure of that.

Vulich caught his breath. "We should go," he said quietly, but he didn't turn to leave.

The light moved again, darting over the blacktop. I was drifting towards them.

Ocelot's hand dropped to the butt of his gun. He didn't draw, but he liked the reassurance that it was there.

"Should we go?" Vulich said again. He stepped back, glancing toward the door. Uncertain, as though he was gauging the distance, and the time it would take him to sprint.

The phantom blinked out of sight, then reappeared almost directly beneath the window.

Ocelot could see it more clearly now. The blue light surrounded a shadow of dark gray, almost black. Though it was translucent around the edges, it was nearly opaque at the center. Bolts of vibrant electricity darted across the surface, deep blues and pale indigos, the colors of an electrical storm. Gravel and trash, debris from the courtyard, swirled around it, suspended as though by an updraft.

"Shalashaska?" Vulich whispered.

"Don't worry," Ocelot said. "It can't hurt you."

But he had never seen anything like this before, and it brought with it an icy, unforgiving chill that stung Ocelot to his very bones. His hands ached, and he lifted them from the butts of his guns to rub absently at the knuckles of the left one.

The phantom moved again. The blue glow that encircled it shifted, and a face appeared like a shape forming in the clouds.

Ocelot recognized it at once, if only because of the scars.

He saw Volgin smile, a smile like none he had ever worn during life. Blue lightning sheeted over the window, and Ocelot jerked back as shards of glass feel at his feet.

In the silence that followed the crash, he could hear ragged breathing. It took Ocelot a moment to realize that it wasn't another illusion. Vulich had flinched back when the window shattered, and drawn closer to Ocelot. He had seized the sleeve of his coat in hands that trembled, though only a little.

They were still for a moment, there in the dark with the cold beating down on them like rain, their breath billowing like atomic clouds in the air before them. Ocelot's arm ached, distant and vengeful, like the pain of a phantom limb. Something stirred, like a snake beneath the skin.

The chill faded, and the oppressive feeling of being watched, but Ocelot's anxiousness did not ease. Vulich's grip on his arm had not loosened. Ocelot sighed, reaching over to pat his clutching fingers.

"It's good to know that there are worse things than me in this world."

Vulich's eye flicked to Ocelot's hand, then up to his face. He abruptly shoved him away.

"I thought you said they couldn't hurt us," Vulich said, suddenly very intrigued by the pattern of broken glass on the floor.

"Are you hurt?" Ocelot asked. "Aside from your pride, I mean."

Vulich wiped his hands on his uniform, as though they were suddenly dirty. He looked out over the courtyard

"It looked at you like it knew you," he said quietly.

"He did."

"You know a lot of dead men," Vulich muttered. He edged closer to the window, and looked out onto the courtyard. "It's gone now," he reported. He reached out, tentatively touching one of the jagged teeth of broken glass still framed in the window.

"I'll know a few more before I'm through," Ocelot said, and he smiled ruefully. "Dead men, I mean."

"Shalashaska…"

"Perhaps, Lieutenant, you thought I was trying to toy with you before. Perhaps you were right. But perhaps this time, you'll listen to me."

He plucked one of his guns from the holster, and spun it thoughtfully.

"Leave this place before dawn. The border isn't far from here. You could still see your home again, you know."

Vulich was quiet for a while, for so long that Ocelot began to think that he had no intention of answering at all.

But then he said, "Believe me, Shalashaska, I take this very seriously. You, and Novikov, and the ghost of…" He hesitated there, and Ocelot could almost hear the name rise in his throat, and he could almost hear Vulich choke it down.

"The ghost of that woman," Vulich said. "Whatever she was here for, whatever she was searching for, it's not really very funny to me. I know what will happen if I stay, but I cannot leave. It's something like fate, Shalashaska. But it's really not like fate at all."

This time, it was Ocelot's turn to be silent.

"I don't care if it doesn't make sense to you," Vulich said. He was still looking out over the empty yard, and Ocelot could see nothing of his face. Just his shoulders, thrown back arrogantly, and his immaculate uniform, and a wave of unkempt hair spilling past his collar. "I never liked you anyway."

"All the same," Ocelot said. "Another sixty years, and I could have started to like you."

Vulich snorted. "You should go. I don't want you bringing any more of those things around. I've hardly slept at all since I got here."

Ocelot left without a word. It was not his custom to say goodbye. But before he stepped out into the hall, he reached to turn on the light.


	32. Chapter 32

Raiden didn't know how long they stayed in the churchyard. After a while, a chilly fog coiled up from the ground, and fresh snow began to fall.

"Come on," Raiden said, wrapping his arm around Vamp's shoulders.

He let Raiden help him to his feet, and they walked back down the hill together in silence. Raiden didn't touch him again, but he stayed close. Vamp didn't look so good, and if he collapsed a second time Raiden wanted to be there to catch him. Vamp's movements had lost their usual agile lightness. He no longer stepped gracefully like a dancer, but dragged his feet. His expression was impassive, but to Raiden, it seemed to reflect profound weariness. Looking at Vamp now was like seeing him for the first time after an absence that had lasted many unkind years.

Once they were back at the rented room, Vamp sat down hard on the bed closest to the door. The springs creaked beneath his weight. He reached for his boots, but his gloved hands struggled with the laces, and in the end he simply fell over on his side, tugging his legs up on the bed.

He pulled a flat, lumpy pillow over his head, and didn't move for the rest of the day. Raiden wasn't sure if he was asleep or not, but when he pulled the blanket over him, Vamp didn't stir.

The room was cold and dark and claustrophobic, especially when the windows iced over. The single 40 watt bulb didn't even cast enough light to read by without straining his eyes, and eventually Raiden gave up.

The book Vamp had loaned him was dense and ponderous, with too many long paragraphs, not enough dialogue, and next to no explosions. When he at last tossed it aside in frustration, Raiden was glad that Vamp was not awake to see him do it and ask if he would prefer something with more pictures next time.

He could, he realized, almost see the tiny smirk that would twist Vamp's lips when he said it. Surely he must have known that expression completely ruined the lines of his face.

Raiden scowled. When, he wondered, had he learned to anticipate Vamp's moods? When had he had the time to map the lines of his face? It was to be expected. They had been traveling together for close to a week now. All their time spent in each other's company. He'd had plenty of opportunities to observe Vamp, to take in all of him.

And there was a lot of him to take in.

Raiden was not satisfied with that answer, though. Back in New York, he had spent plenty of time with Snake and Hal, and he had never been able to picture them in his mind as clearly as he could Vamp. Hell, he didn't even know Otacon's eye color off the top of his head, but now, without even pausing to think about it, he could tell you that Vamp's eyes were blue-gray and placid as a sleepy sea.

Maybe all this meant that Vamp was something more than Raiden had originally thought. Not the bitter rival he'd once been, nor the business partner Raiden had accepted when they started this endeavor. Not a war buddy like Snake, and not a drinking buddy like Otacon.

No more than any of those things, but no less either.

Raiden idly touched his left shoulder where, beneath his clothes, a pale scar lay. Vamp had put that one on him in the depths of Big Shell, and Raiden wanted to remember it now. Before he started pitying Vamp and his poor tender feelings, before he started throwing around words like 'trust', like 'friendship', he wanted to think for a while on all of his scars.

***

It was close to dusk when Raiden left their room.

He went downstairs to the open kitchen below. The white-haired woman who ran the boarding house led him to a chair at the scuffed dining table and brought him a plate of brown rice and sausages made with garlic and paprika. While he ate, she wrapped another plate for him to take back to Vamp.

When Raiden returned, Vamp was awake and sitting up in bed. His expression was one of deep and melancholy thought.

"How long was I out?" he asked.

Raiden shrugged, and thought, not for the first time, that perhaps Vamp had been only pretending to sleep. "A few hours, I guess."

"That long? I don't feel rested at all."

Raiden set the plate down beside the bed. "Soup's on."

"What is it?"

"I don't know, but it's pretty good. Dense. Traveling food, I guess."

Vamp did not reach for the plate. He turned his face up to Raiden's, taking a long look at him in the low light. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Taking care of me. You did take care of me, didn't you?"

Raiden laughed nervously, and glanced away. "Don't tell me you forgot what happened."

"I didn't forget," Vamp said. "I just don't remember this afternoon so clearly."

Raiden came forward, and sat on the edge of the other bed. They were close enough that their knees would have touched if they had let them.

"Yeah, well, you were acting kind of spooky for a while."

"I'm sorry," Vamp said.

"It's okay. It must have been a shock, you know? Snake… told me about your family. I never did ask how he found out. It didn't seem right at the time."

"I see." Vamp frowned. "If he knows, then he knows. All the same, I wish he, of all men, did not."

"What about me?" Raiden asked softly.

Vamp sighed softly. "You, Ingenue, may know whatever you like. I will fold my secrets like paper cranes into your breast."

Raiden felt himself blushing, and he was glad it was dark. Vamp would know, of course. He seemed to always know.

"The ones you remember, you mean," he said quietly.

"I remember what is important," Vamp replied. "You prayed with me. You prayed for them. Your words will float Heavenward with the smoke of the votive candles. They will reach God's ears, and he will know that you meant them in earnest. He will look with favor upon their souls, and hasten their release from Purgatory."

"How do you know I prayed for them?"

"Oh?" Vamp looked startled, then disappointed.

Raiden shook his head. "No. You're right. Of course I prayed for them. I don't know anyone else who would have appreciated it."

Vamp's expression instantly shifted to one of gracious relief.

"You know," Raiden said. "I think sometimes we forget because there's no point in remembering. Forgetting can make us stronger. Remembering only makes us afraid."

"You learned that from Solidus." Vamp's tone was numbly accusatory.

"I…" Raiden lowered his eyes. "I don't remember. Maybe. Solidus said a lot of things."

"Solidus was wrong about a lot of things."

"I know," Raiden said softly, almost a whisper. "He was pretty broken. In the end, he was so messed up, there was nothing left for him to do but die."

"Is that what you believe?" Vamp asked. "Or is it what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?"

Raiden shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. I've been making compromises my whole life, just to make things break even in my mind. I can't even tell the difference anymore, between what I believe and what I want to believe. Is there really any difference, though?"

"There must be," Vamp said.

"But you believe in God because you want to, not because there's any proof. You take it on faith. Just like I have faith that we'll find Revolver Ocelot at the end of all this, and that we'll kill him. We might have different basis for believing, but we both have reasons…"

"Faith is not unshakable. The theologians say that the strongest faith is one that is constantly tested. Lies and half-truths are not a reliable foundation for an entire life."

Raiden shrugged. "I don't know. You know I don't know as much as you do. You're too smart for me."

"I'm not that smart."

"Smarts and common sense are two different things," Raiden said, and smiled weakly.

"Which do you have, Ingenue?"

Raiden was silent for a long time, and the question hung unanswered between them. He knew that Vamp had not meant it rhetorically, but he could think of no answer that would satisfy the man.

At last, he just laughed. A tired, hollow kind of laugh. "I have whichever one makes me smell like I'm past my expiration date. I'm going to get cleaned up. You eat that stuff, okay?"

"I will," Vamp said. "I appreciate it."

***

The bathroom was a small closet down the hall from their room. There was a rusty steel tub, up on feet like a discount incarnation of Baba Yaga's hut. Black dirt from a thousand bare asses ringed the bottom, and Raiden couldn't bring himself to sit in it. He balanced on the edge instead, ran the water and washed as best he could with a spare hand towel and a bar of coarse lye soap.

When he was through, he slipped his jeans back on, sniffed his shirt and then tossed it over the sink with the dirty towel. The small mirror was cloudy and cracked. The light in here was even dimmer than the one in the bedroom, and it made Raiden's face look pale, his eyes sunken and shadowed.

It was a face he hardly recognized as his own.

It wasn't all a trick of the light. Raiden couldn't explain it, but he knew he did not feel the same as he had a week ago, before he had left New York. Maybe he was changing. Inside and out.

He was acting without orders for the first time. At first, he had been content to let Vamp take the lead, to defer to him as he would a commanding officer, but the way he had collapsed in the church yard today, the way he had trembled, made Raiden wonder if Vamp was really any more certain about this job than he was, or if he was only better at acting like he was. It was disturbing to think about, and Raiden felt the hollow, hopeless dread of a sailor set adrift on open water after a shipwreck.

A knock came on the bathroom door. Raiden didn't answer immediately, and so Vamp opened the door and came in.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Raiden straightened, tearing his eyes away from his smudged and murky reflection.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Just… dirty."

He turned to Vamp. "Did you eat?"

Vamp nodded, and held up his toothbrush. "Garlic."

"Oh, right. Because you're a--"

"Very funny."

Vamp propped his shoulder against the doorframe, twirling his toothbrush between two fingers like a knife. "I hope you're not upset about what I said earlier."

Raiden shook his head. "Maybe there was a time when I would have been, but…"

"But not now?"

"I've gotten used to you," Raiden said, and he smiled. "You're getting predictable."

"How tragic."

He came forward a step. Raiden picked up his towel and dirty clothes and started toward the door, but the room was small, hardly big enough for one. Raiden tried to twist around the sink, and he ended up with his ass pressed against the porcelain, and one leg wedged between Vamp's hot thighs.

Raiden swallowed dryly. They had been close before, but he hadn't felt this self-conscious about it in a while. He hadn't been so aware of his bare skin, of the driving need to jerk away and the perverse desire to draw closer, as though he could find a way to do both at the same time.

"Adrian," he said quietly. He felt unbalanced, and he reached up to take hold of Vamp's shoulders. "I was just thinking…"

Vamp smiled thinly. He didn't need to touch Raiden to keep him from looking away. "About me?"

"Yeah. A little bit. About me, too."

"What did you decide?"

"I don't know."

"I do," Vamp purred, and he leaned down, capturing Raiden's lips in a kiss.

The first thing Raiden noticed was that Vamp did not kiss like a soldier, like a man who might die at any moment, and that was what kept him from pulling away immediately. He let Vamp break the kiss first, let him lean back on his heels. Let him draw a deep, sighing breath. "Was it something like that?"

Raiden licked his lips. They felt famished, insatiable. It would have been easy, he thought, to lean in again, to close the inches between them and demand another kiss.

Just something to take the edge off the hunger pains.

But he didn't. He pulled away.

He extricated himself from Vamp's hold, and ducked out the door. He kept his eyes lowered as he walked back down the hall to the bedroom.

Vamp came back a while later. Raiden heard the door open, but he didn't turn to look. He had switched off the light and crawled into bed as soon as he got back to the room, and he lay there now in the penetrating darkness, listening to Vamp undress.

Raiden had been in tighter scrapes than this. He had stayed still – silent, almost without breathing – through closer calls than this one, but he couldn't remember the last time it had been so hard. It seemed like years before he heard Vamp turn down the covers on the other bed, slip under them. He shifted a few times to get comfortable, and then was silent.

Raiden's eyes flew open in the darkness.

He waited a moment longer, but Vamp was still. His breathing was even and relaxed, as though he was already drifting off to sleep.

That asshole probably would sleep tonight. He'd sleep like the fucking dead.

Raiden's eyes narrowed, and he abruptly flung back the covers. He swung his feet onto the floor, reached out so he was touching the edge of Vamp's mattress, and then crossed the gap between the two beds. He pulled back the covers, and set his hand on Vamp's shoulder to nudge him over.

"Hey. Let me in."

"What is it now?" Vamp muttered, but he moved, letting Raiden under the blankets.

"I was waiting for you to get in bed with me," Raiden said. It was hard to get comfortable. The bed was narrow and there was a lot of Vamp to fill it. He had assumed that once he got this close, the rest would fall into place easily. He hadn't anticipated the awkward tangle of limbs, the suffocating heat of Vamp's breath on his face.

And he frowned a little, because it had been easier the night before, when he wanted nothing more than to sleep.

Vamp didn't move as Raiden squirmed around, settling himself. "You could have said something."

"I didn't want to get caught."

"You were scared."

"No. I just… didn't want anyone to walk in on us."

"I dislike being toyed with," Vamp said.

"I wasn't!" Raiden sighed. "I mean… I wouldn't. I wouldn't fuck with you, Adrian. I'm not crazy."

But Vamp was unyielding. He could be accommodating if he wanted to, Raiden knew that. He could soften himself, like he had in the back of the Jeep.

He didn't now, of course. He was angry.

Raiden's eyes skated away. "And maybe I was a little scared. Maybe you scare me a little. Maybe I don't like the way you make me feel. The things you make me want to do. Satisfied?"

"If that's the case, then you have crawled into the very viper's den."

"I know," Raiden whispered. "And I don't care. I just want you to know… that I'm sorry."

He felt Vamp shift beside him, become more pliant. "Sorry for what?"

"Oh, don't start that. You know what I mean. I'm not going to fucking grovel."

Raiden reached out, touching Vamp's shoulder tentatively. "But I've been kind of a jerk. I know you like me. I shouldn't have pretended not to notice. I shouldn't have pretended I didn't feel the same way."

Immediately, Vamp relaxed, and it was easier to lie beside him. All he had needed to do was give a little, Raiden realized. Vamp had been more than ready to meet him halfway. Raiden swallowed dryly. His fingers traced abstract patterns on Vamp's chest, mapping old scars in the darkness.

"Can I kiss you again, Adrian?"

"If you like."

"Whatever I like, huh?"

"Within reason."

"Then I'd rather you kiss me."

And Vamp did.

Raiden had been sure he had imagined the casual languidness of Vamp's lips. The way he had been more than willing to let each kiss stretch on indefinitely, to let them burn out rather than be snuffed. No man who had ever faced his own death – who truly knew the value of a moment – should have been able to kiss like that, and yet Vamp did.

He kissed him until the hair on the back of Raiden's neck stood up.

"Touch me?" Raiden whispered between their pressed lips. He hardly dared pull away far enough to make the words.

Vamp's hands fastened around his waist, the sweetest vice he had ever known. Rough fingertips skated along the waistband of his jeans. Raiden gasped as they slid over hips, but he did not cry out until they found the hard ridge between his legs.

"You needed this," Vamp said. It was not a question.

"No…" Raiden whispered.

"After we've come this far, it's hardly worth it to lie to me, Ingenue."

Raiden sunk his hands into waves of black hair, one on either side of Vamp's head, drawing him down into a deep kiss.

"I need you," he said.

Vamp hesitated, and when he began to pull away, Raiden caught him and held him fast. "Adrian. We've come too far for me to bullshit you about something like this."

"It's been a long time since I heard those words."

"You're hearing them from me now," Raiden said. He kissed Vamp again, enticing his lips to part. "Forget the past, Adrian. Not forever. Just for, like, 10 fucking minutes, okay?"

"Ten minutes?" Vamp muttered against Raiden's mouth. "I hope you're good for longer than that."

Raiden blushed, and it took much-needed blood away from his groin. For a moment, his head swam. "I was just, you know… rounding."

Vamp's hand was back between his legs then, coaxing his cock back to full, aching hardness. "Rounding up or down?"

"Down?"

"Good answer," Vamp tugged at the button of Raiden's jeans, easing the zipper down. His hand slipped inside, closing around him.

"Shit," Raiden moaned.

"Relax." Vamp hooked his hands in Raiden's jeans, sliding them over his hips and down. "I'll take care of you."

He pressed his lips to Raiden's neck, the point of his chin, the hollow of his throat. Then lower, leaving a slow, wet serpentine trail down his chest. He paused to tease a nipple with his tongue. "I've wanted you," he said, breathing cool air over the skin he had just dampened. "Ever since the Big Shell."

Raiden smiled faintly. "That's kind of messed up."

"I know."

Vamp dipped his head again, trailing a line of biting kisses past Raiden's stomach, and lower. Raiden's fingers twisted in the sheets, his hips arching up. He trusted Vamp, he thought. He trusted him to make everything that was wrong about this seem right. And when he hesitated, with his lips pressed to the stretch of skin beneath Raiden's navel, Raiden sank his fingers into black hair.

"Don't stop now."

Vamp didn't.

He slid his lips along the underside of Raiden's cock, from the base to the tip. Then his lips parted, and he took him in. At first, Raiden didn't dare make a sound, as though this was something that could be scared away, a dream he would awaken himself from if he cried out in his sleep.

Raiden tightened his grip on Vamp's hair, tugging him closer. Vamp bore down on him, sudden and terrible, and Raiden jerked up against his pliant mouth. He came with a breathless sound, and the only word on his lips was Vamp's name.

"Adrian…" Raiden didn't open his eyes right away, but he said the name, said it so there would be no mistaking it.

He felt the mattress shift as Vamp moved above him, the warmth of his body as he descended. Raiden tilted his chin back in anticipation of a kiss, and Vamp did not disappoint him. Raiden could taste the residual come on his lips, and he was surprised to discover that he did not mind much. He wondered if all this shouldn't seem more significant, if he shouldn't feel some deep and conflicting emotions. He tried to dredge up a little of the guilt and horror that he knew should have been there, but he found only and endless well of relief that Vamp was with him now.

Raiden didn't know how it was that they had become close, but when he opened his eyes again and saw the way Vamp was looking down at him, he knew what had changed. They weren't friends but they weren't enemies either. They had only become somehow familiar to each other, and that, Raiden supposed, was the best outcome he could have hoped for.

He reached up, stroking Vamp's stomach below the navel. He felt him catch his breath, felt him strain into his touch, and Raiden was reminded suddenly, unpleasantly, of the last time they had fought. Not the scrap in the alley outside the bar in New York, but the last time they had really wished each other dead.

Vamp had wanted that then, like he wanted this now.

Raiden's expression must have changed with the realization, because Vamp bent down and kissed him again. "It's all right. You don't have to do anything."

He shifted off Raiden and seemed about to move to the other bed, but Raiden caught his arm. "Wait."

Vamp looked back.

"I'm sorry. I haven't… I mean, I don't usually do this with guys. But that doesn't mean I don't…"

He lowered his eyes. "What I'm trying to say is, don't go. Stay with me."

It seemed a long time before Vamp moved again, and then it was to slip off his undershirt and toss it aside. His jeans followed a moment later, and he slipped back into bed wearing only his briefs.

Raiden swallowed hard, wondering if the move had been meant to intimidate him. "You've got some kind of vendetta against clothes, don't you?"

"It's more comfortable like this."

Vamp did not move when Raiden raised his hands to him. Raiden touched his cool ivory cheeks, ran fingers through his black hair. Even after all the madness of that day, Vamp's hair lay sleek and untangled over his shoulders.

Raiden explored further, pressing his palms against Vamp's chest and sliding them lower. Vamp did not arch against him, but he did not move to stop him either. Eventually, Raiden came to the elastic band of Vamp's underwear, and Raiden could feel his erection straining against the thin cotton covering. When Raiden grazed it with his fingertips, he heard Vamp suck in a sharp breath.

Curious, the way he could be curious only about the machinations of another person's body, Raiden nudged Vamp's underwear aside with his fingertips and closed his hand around his cock. He felt its sturdiness, the steady beat of Vamp's pulse against his hand. Raiden began to stroke him, slowly at first, then faster when he heard Vamp's breathing quicken.

But Vamp made no sound at all beyond that. Even the moment that he came was preceded only by a soft dry click as the muscles in the back of his throat tightened. Raiden felt the hot pulse of come spill over his fingers.

He was not expecting Vamp to pull away as quickly as he did.

"Adrian…" Raiden started to say, but he realized he had nothing with which to follow it. He thought that something ought to feel different between them now, but he knew that nothing of any significance had changed.

Vamp retrieved a towel from the rack by the door. He slipped out of his underwear, cleaned himself off, and then came back to bed.

"I need another shower," Raiden muttered.

"Later," Vamp said. "For now, get some rest."

He pulled the blankets out of the way and stretched out beside him. It was a tight fit, with both of them in the bed, and it took some experimenting to make it work.

Raiden was quiet for a while, and he felt his eyes begin to grow heavy. He didn't want to sleep yet, not when it seemed there ought to be so much more to say. But when Raiden tried, he found that he had run right out of words


	33. Chapter 33

Alone once more in the empty halls of Groznyj Grad, Ocelot could not stop thinking about what he had seen. He was not surprised by the appearance of the creature that had once been Colonel Volgin. Sometimes Ocelot wondered about the things that kept one spirit or another tied it its life, but Volgin's presence was no mystery. That man had enough rage when he was alive to sustain him in death for many years to come.

They all had their reasons for staying. Rare was the man who could die without misgiving, without feeling the need to leave a part of himself behind. Jack had been one, or so it seemed, for Ocelot had not seen him since his death. He had not even once felt his presence near him. But Jack had not been without his furies, his passions. It seemed somehow unfair that, of all of them, he had been the one to die peacefully, without any regrets at all.

Maybe the only thing Jack had ever really wanted was to go in the heat of battle and so, with that accomplished, he was content. Or maybe, near the end, even he had begun to see the futility and flimsiness upon which his dreams were built. Whatever the case, Ocelot was not glad that he was at peace. Stubbornly, selfishly, and with all his heart, he wanted Jack with him.

Ocelot was an old man now, too old for lust or obsession; too old, even, for love. All he had left was habit, and the dreary pride he took in a job well done. Intermittently, he had his memories, and those were what he fell back on most.

He remembered a night in Outer Heaven when he had known the end was near. His handlers had been in touch and the events that would lead to the destruction of this place were already set in motion. They had not asked Ocelot to kill Big Boss himself which had come as a surprise. They must have been very confident in their new man to trust him to do the job. Ocelot was only to act as support and, most importantly, to pass undetected.

Not for the first time, he wondered just how much of his relationship with Jack was common knowledge. They must have figured out almost everything, he supposed, but that was not why he was slated to play such a small part in the coming battle. Such things as devotion, as love, had never meant anything to them, and so Ocelot had the dreary task of facing Jack down every night and pretending that nothing had changed.

Looking back now, he was almost certain that Jack had known all along. He had known, and he watched Ocelot sweat and he had taken some pleasure in it, no doubt, for in those last few months of his life he had come more and more often to Ocelot's quarters at Outer Heaven. They had drunk and talked, almost like in the old days, and yet with none of the passion of the past. Try as he might, Ocelot could not recapture it, and he noticed for the first time how little remained of the man he had once adored.

Ocelot had always been discerning when it came to who he went to bed with, and he remembered how dismayed he had been to find Jack's very touch now repellant to him. Ocelot placed himself well out of reach and surveyed the wreckage that had once been a great man.

At the time, Jack was not yet past sixty, but with an accumulation of hard living on his features. His body was still upright and hard, but his face had become saggy and creased. He drank too much, and when he did he liked to talk about all the wrongs that had been done to him. He was nothing but an old man now with no recourse but to rail against a world that had moved on without him. All his strength had long since become but stubbornness, and all his pride, vanity.

It made what Ocelot had to do a little easier.

And so he waited, hour after hour, night after night, and watched Jack pace the floor and rant about the specters of the past. Until, at last, he had run through them all and he had no one left to blame. It was quiet after that, and Ocelot came at last to realize how much of a racket Jack made; how big his presence in Ocelot's life really was.

Ocelot watched his turned back uneasily, waiting for Jack to break the silence once more. It seemed that he was rallying his energy, working himself up to something, and Ocelot thought that he would soon begin the same volley of complaints all over again. Ocelot moved to pour himself another drink, and Jack turned on him suddenly. In his one remaining eye, some of the old fire sputtered and burned.

"What do you believe in?" he asked.

Ocelot was taken aback, but he replied at once, easily. "You. And Outer Heaven. All we have built here."

Jack didn't seem to like that answer, but Ocelot could only shrug. "If you mean God, I can't help you there."

"No, not God," Jack agreed. "But something like a soul, maybe. Something that lingers after you're dead."

Ocelot did not say anything at first. He had never told Jack about the ghosts. Though he did not think that he would deny it if the topic ever came up, somehow, in all these years, it never had.

"This is a new side of you," he said at last. "I have to admit, Jack, I didn't expect to hear something like that from you."

"Someone who has seen the things that you and I have can't very well afford to discount any possibilities."

Ocelot said nothing, but he was watching Jack intently, certain that something was imminent.

"It was in Russia," Jack went on. "It seems like everything started there. I'd been close to death before, but there'd always been someone with me. I'd never had to stare it down alone. I saw things then. Maybe they were just hallucinations, the panicked misfires of dying synapses, but I saw them all the same. They were in the river. Like maybe the water called to them…"

"What did you see?" Ocelot asked.

"Dead men. All the men I'd killed."

In spite of himself, Ocelot felt shaken. "Why are you telling me this, Jack?"

"Because I want you to know. The people you kill don't forget your face. And, when the time comes for you to die, you should hope it's not by drowning."

***

Ocelot had stopped walking some time ago. He had come to a halt in the middle of the hallway and let his remembrances play out. No one had come upon him there, but he supposed he wouldn't have minded if they had. The present was no longer as real to him as the past was; men who still lived and breathed had less substance than men who were long dead.

The water called to them, Jack had said. Ocelot had never noticed a correlation himself. Here, in the high peaks, with the arid steppe on three sides, there was no water to spare. Their rations had to be brought in by truck, stale and metallic tasting from the long journey. The very air was dry enough to sap the saliva from your mouth and the tears from your eyes.

In the summer, there would be runoff from the mountains, but at this time of year all those streams and miniature waterfalls were frozen solid. The sheer rock face just north of the base was glazed with a thick sheet of ice, evidence of what would have been a torrent in warmer months…

Ocelot started as if out of a sound sleep. Instinct made his hand drop to the butt of his gun. He squeezed the sandalwood grip without making a move to draw, as if reassuring himself of its presence. He couldn't say for sure how many times he had seen the wall of ice, but he knew he had glanced at it often and then dismissed it as one of the many superfluous beauties that nature was capable of producing. All this time, he had been too wrapped up in ghosts and memories to see it for what it really was: a false wall behind which a hangar could be hidden.

Fear death by water, that was what Innokenty had told him. And no, he had not been wrong.

Ocelot bothered with none of the usual precautions as he left the base. If he was seen then he would be seen, and if he was followed then that too would come to pass. He bundled his coat close around himself as he went out into the night, the freezing air first stinging his exposed skin then numbing it beyond pain.

He passed the empty lot where Volgin's shade had appeared, and he saw the shattered glass scattered across the pavement. He wondered if Vulich was still watching from his place high above, his eyes now following Ocelot's progress with the same curiosity and fear they had followed Volgin's.

That unwavering drive, the ability to stare unflinchingly at the truth, to see it all through, even until madness, even unto death… Ocelot knew he had never possessed such qualities. He had seen them in others, though, and he had learned to mimic them. He had memorized the motions, the positions, that was all; no different than playing an instrument or learning to fire a gun.

The ground was dusted with snow and the moon was high and bright. Ocelot could see a long way. He attempted the narrow and treacherous path that wound up to the ridges that ringed Groznyj Grad. A dirt road had been carved into the rock, and he followed it around to the north where, against the cliff face, the sheet if ice glittered blackly in the moonlight.

Ocelot found the door in the rock almost at once. It had been painted white, but no other effort had been made to conceal it. It was as if it had been waiting there, arrogantly, the entire time. On impulse, Ocelot jerked his glove off and grasped the handle of the door. The metal was frozen, but the sting of the cold barely had time to penetrate before Ocelot felt it begin to grow warm beneath his touch. He held it long enough for the sensors to take an impression of his fingerprints, and then a moment more just to be certain, but the door did not yield.

He had never been meant to come here.

Ocelot turned away, trying to collect his thoughts. Before him lay the fortress of Groznyj Grad, illuminated by the spectral light of the moon. And he felt himself slipping again, back towards the past, into the inextricable tangle of memories. They came like waves now, one atop the other, bleeding together until they had no more logic to their progression than did dreams.

Then, he heard a soft click from behind: the sound of a latch releasing.

He turned on his heels, so hard that his feet almost went out from under him on the ice. But he barely noticed, for he could see only the door cut into the rock face. It hung open now, swaying on its hinges, and beyond it was an impenetrable darkness.

Ocelot felt nothing but the draw of that black space. He went forward, pushing the door open. It swung back without a sound, seeming to weigh nothing at all.

It was too dark inside to see, and Ocelot had come with no light save the book of matches in his coat pocket. He thought he had three left, maybe four, not more than that. He didn't light them right away. Somewhere nearby, he could hear water running. It was a hollow metallic sound: a closed system run by a pump. It seemed there was also an air filter of some kind at work, but it ran at strange, short intervals. Fifteen seconds drawing air in, then fifteen spitting it back out. It must have been malfunctioning in some way.

He went further inside, holding a hand out in front of himself to feel his way, for he knew this was no empty darkness. Almost at once his fingertips came in contact with a smooth unyielding surface. Ocelot jerked his hand back, wiping it on the tail of his coat. Though it had the texture of metal, he knew it was no metal he had just touched. It had been warm, as if heated from within, and, more than that, there had been something loathsome about it. Ocelot couldn't articulate what was wrong, but his body had known, and it had recoiled.

Reluctant to touch the strange surface again, Ocelot took out his book of matches. There were three, just as he had thought, and he struck the first and held it up and saw that the metallic thing was a kind of black pillar, very narrow at the floor but belling out as it ascended. The highest point was somewhere above his head, and Ocelot could not see it even when he stretched the match as far as he could reach.

He circled around the pillar, shook out the match when it burned his fingers, and lit another. He could see a second pillar some distance from the first, and he understood then that these were legs. He was in the hangar where the Metal Gear was stored.

His former unease disappeared beneath a swell of triumph. When the second match went out, Ocelot did not light the third; he swallowed his disgust and continued exploring the machine by touch. Some distance out in front of the legs, he found a thick downsweeping arch which could only have been the Metal Gear's neck. Its head was lowered, then, he thought. If that was where the cockpit was, then perhaps he could get inside…

Encourage by the prospect, Ocelot stuck the final match and found himself confronted with a boxy, reptilian head and a face dominated by a gash of a mouth. Again, he hesitated. Anthropomorphized features had always been incorporated into Metal Gear designs, but he had never seen one so detailed, or so unsettling.

The face jutted forward and was cleaved in half by a lipless mouth, like a snake's head. Ocelot could see a row of jagged, uneven teeth within. The metal here was not the even, shiny black of the legs, but mottled with white and green spots, as if hammered out of old copper. Worst of all, though, were the eyes. They were black, too small for the face, and when Ocelot held the match up to one it reflected the flame sightlessly.

Something in that small black bead drew him, and Ocelot leaned in. Until he was close enough that he could see himself reflected in the Metal Gear's eye, close enough that they almost touched… And then a gleaming white membrane slid down over the eye.

Ocelot stumbled back. The match slipped from his fingers, sputtered once on the floor and then went out. He was left there in the darkness, with the machine.

The machine that blinked, he thought with mounting horror. A machine that had warm skin, and a presence like a living thing did.

It was then that he understood the strange movement of air in the room. It was no malfunctioning filter that made the rhythmic in and out sounds. No, no, it was the breathing of some great slumbering beast.

All at once, the hangar was flooded with red light, though it took Ocelot a moment to realize that it came from Matryona's eye. Transfixed with horror, he watched the small orb rotate in its socket, until the brightest part was fixed on him. He knew then that he was being watched. Not analyzed by retinal circuitry, but genuinely watched with patient and amused curiosity.

Ocelot's stomach clenched in panic, and he fled the hangar. The door swung shut again behind him, but he hardly noticed. He was clutching the rock face of the bluff, retching and gasping for breath.

It had been horrible beyond his ability to speak of or understand. His body had felt the wrongness of the creature even if his mind could not comprehend it. Even as he stood there, Ocelot was sure he could feel the mountain itself throbbing, throbbing, with the breathing of the creature within.

His knees were weak, but Ocelot couldn't wait for his strength to return. He could not stay here any longer, with Matryona just on the other side of that wall. For she had looked at him, and she had known him, and she would never forget his face.

Picking his way more carefully now, Ocelot went back down the path and into the comforting light of the fortress. As he passed through the gate in the electric fence, he looked quickly back over his shoulder, as if he had heard someone following close on his heels.

There was no one, though. Not even the familiar presence of a ghost.


	34. Chapter 34

Until now, Ocelot had not paid much attention to the departure of the spirits that had gathered in his wake. They had come and gone many times over the years, riding the natural waves of his moods. In times of greatest danger they were always near, and, when the darkness was passed, they dispersed again. This time, though, something was different, and Ocelot felt he was being confronted with something not unlike the dramatic low tide that precedes a tidal wave.

He moved more slowly now, carefully, scenting the air for a hint of that old unnatural coldness but he felt only the crispness of the mountain air. His eyes moved slowly, scanning the empty yard for a crackle of light, a shimmer in the air, any kind of disturbance that might betray a presence. He saw only the play of the spotlights over the dirty snow.

His heart was pounding fast now. Ocelot tried to remember if it had ever slowed after he had left Matryona's hangar, but when he felt his thoughts tipping precariously back towards the glare of that single eye, red like flames in the darkness, he wrenched them back. He did not dare to contemplate that thing, not yet. All his senses had assured him it was a machine, but all his instincts had screamed that it was a monster. The truth was something he didn't think he wanted to know.

Ocelot refocused quickly. He replayed the events of the past day in rapid succession, searching them for signs. He had seen Volgin earlier, of course, but even before that the base had been remarkably quiet. Raikov hadn't shown himself in almost twenty-four hours. The nagging Liquid voice he carried around inside had been strangely quiet as well.

Volgin's presence didn't mean much, Ocelot thought grimly. He'd always been too stubborn, too foolish, to come in when it threatened rain.

There was a sound behind him. Ocelot turned quickly to face it, not with the easy grace of a long-time gunfighter, but with a quick and nervous energy. The shadow of a man stood there watching him. It was thin beyond human thinness: a clatter of loose bones inside a decaying Russian uniform. Where its face should have been there was a black well – darkness upon darkness – lacking both benevolence and condemnation.

Ocelot felt relieved, even grateful. Then the shadow came forward a little, and in the shift of the light across its blank face, he saw the features of the young Gurlukovich stray, Kolya.

For a moment, Ocelot could only stare in as if he didn't quite understand. As if the living boy had become somehow less corporeal than a spirit.

Kolya smiled guiltily. "I wasn't trying to sneak up on you, Shalashaska. Honest."

"What are you doing here?" Ocelot said, and though his voice had an edge, it was not cruel.

Kolya recoiled from him all the same, and Ocelot righted his expression quickly, hoping it would be enough to coax the boy back. "I mean to say, it's very late."

"I know, but—" Kolya broke off and did not speak again for almost a full minute. Ocelot did not interrupt him, but he held the boy's eyes and eventually he saw him relax, lulled like a rodent brought under the spell of a viper.

"I'll show you," he said at last. "But you have to promise not to tell anyone."

"Your secret's safe with me," Ocelot assured him, feeling the situation falling easily, effortlessly, under his control. But when he followed Kolya back towards a line of maintenance sheds, his steps seemed to fall in an unfamiliar rhythm, as if he were the one who had been hypnotized.

Kolya glanced back at him before he slipped inside one of the sheds, conspiratorial and young. So young that it was horrible to behold.

"Kolya…" Ocelot said quietly as he followed the boy in.

"It's right here. I just have to move some boxes."

Kolya was at the back of the shed, sliding aside a wooden crate. He made a well big enough for the two of them to stand, and then he waved Ocelot forward. He pushed back an ancient yellow tarp and looked down reverently at the case he had uncovered. It was a long rectangle, steel painted drab green. A serial number was stenciled along one edge.

Ocelot did not recognize it at first, but it was familiar somehow and it made his stomach knot painfully.

With some difficulty, Kolya thumbed open the large silver claps on the front of the case and lifted the lid. The case exhaled the dry and papery smell of great age from within, and again Ocelot felt a twisting deep inside.

The Davey Crockett lay long and gleaming on a bed of molded plastic. One of the depressions beside it was empty, but the other still held a bulb-shaped warhead. Ocelot had seen the weapon up close only once and he had not thought he ever would again. He ran a gloved hand slowly along the narrowest part of the barrel, reverence not for the weapon itself, but for the past it was a part of. "Where did this come from?"

"It was here," Kolya said defensively. "I found it just like this."

All at once, Ocelot understood. He knew that this was the same Davey Crockett that Volgin had brought to Groznyj Grad in 1964. After his death, it had been packed away somewhere, forgotten, until they had lifted the remains of the old fortress and carried it here. All at once, the weapon no longer seemed a fond memento, but a bitter reminder instead.

Ocelot drew his hand away. "This is dangerous, you know."

"It's perfectly safe," Kolya said. It was the first time Ocelot had ever heard him disagree. "The casing on the warhead is intact. The firing system doesn't even work. Look, the triggerlock is stuck."

"Have you seen one of these before, kid?"

"I've seen pictures. Diagrams, I mean. I never thought I'd see one in person. I've been coming out here, just to look at it. You know, they haven't been used since—"

"I know," Ocelot said. It made him feel suddenly, strangely sick. The thought of a kid like Kolya visiting this old forgotten gun like it was some kind of relic from a saint. Kissing its bones while death hovered all around them, so close that they sucked it in with every breath they took.

Kolya was watching him closely. His old, familiar nervousness had returned, and he was even trembling a little. "Don't tell anyone about it. You said you wouldn't tell…"

"No." Ocelot sighed. "I won't tell anyone."

"Thank you." Kolya's expression softened, not quite into a smile. "I just like knowing it's here, and that it's mine. I've always liked explosives, you know. Bombs and things. Because everyone else is kind of afraid of them, but I've never been afraid."

"It's all right," Ocelot said. "You don't have to explain."

"I know. But…" Kolya's shoulders slumped. "I think I'm going to stay here for a little while longer, but you don't have to. I thought you might be interested, that's all."

He couldn't have possibly known where Ocelot's interests really lay; he had only spoken to Kolya a handful of times. Ocelot found himself wondering about the personality Kolya had constructed for him. He was a lonely boy, Ocelot thought, though he had known as much all along.

Kolya was lonely, and he would die a forgotten death. Those were the facts as they stood now and there was no hope of changing them. Ocelot turned away, irritated by the truth.

"Don't stay out too long, Kolya," he said. His voice had a paternal quality to it, but Ocelot had never associated anything good with parenthood. He thought that he sounded weary, and tame. "It's not worth it."

Kolya made a questioning sound in his throat, but it never found the shape of words. Ocelot was glad for the excuse to ignore it altogether. He went out into the lonely night, leaving Kolya to gaze rapturously at a decaying cast-off of history, as if it were gold, or true love.


	35. Chapter 35

Raiden had never believed in pleasant surprises. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing pleasant about a change in the order of things, an interruption to the rigid schedule by which he lived.

Even when he had been a kid – after he'd moved to America and locked the first twelve years of his life away in his subconscious - he'd hated it when they canceled school because of snow, or pulled them all out of class for an assembly about drunk driving or growing pubes or something. In seventh grade, he'd gone to spend the night at a friend's house. At three in the morning, he'd woken up on a pallet on the floor of an unfamiliar house, and he hadn't stopped screaming until his voice gave out.

It was that same feeling now, coming awake in a cramped boarding house bed with Vamp's arm draped over his waist. Raiden remembered everything that had happened, but he hadn't expected it to be like this. He had assumed that sleep would find a way to pull them apart again, to brick up all the holes in their defenses; in fact, he had been looking forward to it.

But he found now that they were even closer than they had been. The old respectful distance was gone, and what had taken its place was the leaden weight of Vamp's limp arm.

Raiden had never thought it would be so heavy. Of course, Vamp was no lightweight, not with all that muscle he had packed on him, but the graceful way he carried himself had always suggested the hollow bones of birds. They'd grappled plenty of times before, but Raiden had never had as hard a time shaking off Vamp's hold as he did this morning.

At last, he broke the grip of sleep-clenched fingers and bounded to his feet. He grabbed at his discarded clothes, snatching up the jeans before the boxers, the sweater before the shirt. When he heard a stirring of blankets behind him, Raiden did not look back. He felt a hot shock of panic go through. White spots flared up before his eyes.

He heard himself speaking in a flat, administrative voice that he hardly recognized as his own.

"That guy – Radu – said the car would be ready this morning. I want to get an early start. We've lost a lot of time already. You know, we left all the guns right in the back seat. Their covered up with a blanket, but there still out where anyone can find them. I don't know what we were thinking yesterday…"

He fell silent, the words cut off as sharply as if a hand had closed around his throat. There was no shuffle of settling blankets behind him, no careful sounds as Vamp rose to ready himself for the day. He dreaded turning to face him, and yet, somehow, he did.

The look on Vamp's face surprised him, for he recognized in it the shock of the recently betrayed. Raiden shuddered, his fists unclenching so that his clothes fell once more into an indistinguishable heap on the floor. He edged warily towards the bed, no longer able to predict what Vamp would do, no longer certain what he would do himself.

Raiden sat down on the bed beside him. Vamp's hand lay on the sheets between them, limp, his fingers uncurled. Raiden wasn't sure if he was offering it, but he took hold of it anyway.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and then Vamp kissed him. And then they were kissing each other.

His fingers were clenched tight around Vamp's hand, as if longing for a grip that wouldn't let go even in death. He was still apologizing: tired weary words, almost automatic, almost bereft of feeling, surfaced between each kiss. Even when he couldn't speak any more, he felt them coming still; piling up on the back of his tongue, sticking uselessly in his throat.

***

The Jeep was ready just as Radu had promised. While he cracked the hood and showed Vamp the patch he had put on the engine block, Raiden crept around to the back and made sure that the cache of weapons under the seat was undisturbed. It didn't do much good because he couldn't say for sure what state they had left things in the day before, but he liked the feeling of being efficient and thorough.

Vamp counted out a stack of bills for Radu, and then come over to where Raiden stood. He didn't say anything at first, but he looked at Raiden as if he were waiting for something.

Raiden fretted over his inability to give him what he wanted.

"Are we done here?" he said at last, stiffly.

"We're done," Vamp said.

Raiden wondered if Vamp would ever really be done with this town. He was trying to find the right words to ask him if he wanted to see the church again – a way to phrase it that wouldn't make it sound like what he was really asking was whether Vamp wanted to go back to see his own name there on the roster of the dead – when Vamp moved away from him and slid in behind the wheel of the Jeep.

Feeling no particular emotion so strongly that he couldn't hide it, Raiden got in beside him, and they drove. Ten minutes later, they were over the hump of a snow covered hill and the town was lost from sight.

They drove ceaselessly all through the day, eating granola bars and only stopping long enough to piss in the ditch that ran along the side of the road. Raiden felt his ears pop as they ascended, watched the scenery change from easy green hills to pine forest.

He was thinking placidly of the trip his foster parents had dragged him on when he was in high school. His therapist – one of them, at any rate – had suggested it, and so they'd jerked him out of school for a couple of weeks, shoved him into the back seat of their Ford Explorer with the empty Burger King wrappers, and headed for the nearest coast.

What Raiden remembered the most about that trip was the days like this, when a pall of awkward, talked-out silence descended over the inside of the car and Raiden turned to the window to watch the scenery go by. He liked trying to find the exact spot where one place became another: the first scraggly cactus as they went down into desert country; the first clump of real trees as they came out the other side.

It made him feel small, humble, awed. As cliche as it was, it comforted him. Like maybe this was the one thing people couldn't accuse him of being weird about. Maybe this was the one thing they all shared.

"What's on your mind, Jack?"

Raiden looked over, startled. He was sure Vamp had called him by his given name before, but he couldn't remember when.

He opened his mouth to reply. He didn't know what he was going to say.

"I guess I was just thinking about how I had kind of a sad childhood."

Raiden laughed. That wasn't what he had expected, and it seemed pathetic and funny. He giggled like he would at a stranger's humiliation.

"Did you, now?"

Vamp wasn't laughing, though. His eyes were fixed straight ahead. On the road, Raiden thought, not the trees or the snow; the mundane majesty of it all. He probably didn't see the beauty in anything except for a hole he could stick his dick in, or a hole he'd just pulled his knife out of.

"No," Raiden said. "Not really."

***

They didn't stop until midnight. By then, they were well on the other side of the Russian border.

Raiden stumbled up to their rented hotel room, fell into bed fully clothed and blind with exhaustion. Vamp slipped in beside him, and they pawed each other for a while under the blankets. It felt mechanical, impersonal, but Raiden came about as hard as he ever had in his life. He buried his face in the pillow to stifle his cries. The walls of their room were very thin.

Afterwards, he lay awake in the darkness and listened to Vamp sleep.

He thought about the night in New York when they had agreed to team up. It had been an alliance of convenience more than anything. Raiden wondered if convenience was all there was to this part of their partnership, too.

Then he wondered why he had ever dared to hope otherwise.

***

The next day, they were both unrested and irritable. They breakfasted on cold coffee and stifled yawns, on anxiety about the full day that still lay ahead of them.

Almost a full week of hard travel had left Raiden exhausted, bleary. He would meet Revolver Ocelot again on four hours of sleep, if he was lucky; with muscles that were stiff from so long cramped in the car, a stomach that churned from infrequent bad food.

It didn't worry him. He knew that his exhaustion and all his small pains would be forgotten the moment he scented a fight.

"I'll probably sleep for a week when all this is over," he mumbled. It had seemed like a perfectly logical continuation of his thoughts, but when he said it aloud it seemed awkward and small in the silence of the Jeep's interior.

Vamp looked over at him. He was in the passenger seat, not even trying to sleep. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin looked yellowish. He hadn't shaved that morning, and there was a shadow on his jaw.

He still looked good, Raiden thought. Good, but not great anymore.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I wouldn't have kept you awake last night if I'd known."

For a moment, Raiden was stunned. He couldn't believe that Vamp was actually talking about it. That thing they had done twice now, but under cover of darkness so that, in the harsh light of day, it hardly seemed to count.

"That was fine," Raiden said, going to great pains to make his voice sound even and unimpassioned. "I mean, how many more chances are we going to get, right?"

It took all his strength not to look at Vamp when he said it. He'd only meant it as a test.

"I hadn't given much thought to the matter," Vamp replied.

"I mean, when we're back home," Raiden said. He was aware that his voice was dropping, dropping. Becoming so soft it was barely a whisper. He seemed entirely unable to control it. "Can we really risk it? Even if it's just a casual thing? Even if… even if we really want it?"

"Is that what you've been trying to tell me all this time, Jack?"

"Adrian…"

"That you want it?"

Raiden shuddered, gripping the steering wheel tight. "I do. I guess I really do. But you make it hard for me sometimes."

"How?"

"By being you." Raiden tried to smile, knew it looked more like a grimace, and gave it up. "It's probably nothing you can help."

"Try me."

"No…"

"Please?"

Raiden glanced at him, taking his eyes off the road for a second, just long enough to wish in a crazed way that he'd hit a patch of black ice or a moose or something, just to put an end to this conversation.

"I guess what I want to tell you is that I was lonely before I met you. I couldn't tell anyone what I was thinking, not even someone like Snake who would have just sat there and not said anything and kind of looked sympathetic. I mean, the things I've seen - the things I've done – they don't really invite casual conversation, you know?"

Raiden felt a knot rising in his throat. He forced himself to keep talking past it.

"But you… I didn't even need to tell you anything. You knew Solidus. You had all this fucked up shit in your past. You had all that blood on your hands. It was like, in some weird way, you were already me, and I was already you."

Vamp was listening to him intently. Not looking at him, but listening all the same.

"You're not me, though. You're better than me, and you're worse than me. You're crazier, and you're saner. I don't really know all the little nuances or whatever. All I know is that the longer we spend together, the closer we get to the moment when you see something in me that makes you hate me. It took Rose a long time to decide that, but she ignored a lot of stuff. She didn't pay attention to anything that she didn't like. She didn't know what she was looking for, not like you do."

Vamp was quiet for a long time. Not like him at all, Raiden thought, and felt foreboding.

"I don't hate you, Jack," he said at last. "But, I think you are right. If you're going to keep bringing up the past, bringing up Solidus, then we ought not persist in this."

Raiden's voice trembled. "Are you saying that for my sake? Or…"

"You think too highly of me. I'm saying it out of a sense of self-preservation. I don't want to talk about Solidus. I don't want anyone to understand. I need it to be that way. I've tried everything else and I keep coming back to the same place. The same hard truths that I can't escape."

"But you brought him up before," Raiden said. He realized he sounded sulky and sullen.

"Yes." Vamp sighed. "I have these moments where I think that, if I could only make some kind of great leap of compassion, if I could only find a way to understand him, then I would be able to transcend him. It never works. In fact, there is very little to understand about that man. I'm sorry, though. I shouldn't have tried to drag you into my messes."

"The least you could do is not act so goddamn martyred when you're trying to break up with me."

"I can't seem to win with you today, Jack."

"I guess I'm just nervous," Raiden said sarcastically.

Vamp smiled. He reached over, and Raiden felt the brush of his callused fingertips on the inside of his wrist. It was right where his sleeve ended, right at the narrowest part of him. His hand convulsed around the gearshift, relaxed again, did not pull away.

"I'm glad I met you," Vamp said quietly. "Whatever happens, I'm glad I met you when I did."

"Whatever happens," Raiden echoed, but the words seemed foreign to him, bereft of context and meaning.


	36. Chapter 36

The sun had not yet risen over Groznyj Grad when Lieutenant Vulich awoke. He had slept only four mercifully dreamless hours, but he felt refreshed. As he put on his coat and boots, he remembered the events of the night before, replaying them in his mind with methodic thoroughness; he was willing to concede to himself that he had been frightened then, but he would not allow those feelings to return now.

He didn't believe in ghosts, and yet it seemed that now he somehow must. Since his childhood, Vulich had considered compromise and flexibility virtues only of weaker men. He had no need of them, for he had always known the simple and incontestable truths of the world.

It was not for the sake of the creature in the courtyard that he would change, but rather for the woman he had seen the day before. It had been Olga Gurlukovich, and upon seeing her Vulich had felt a pang of remorse that he had not in the days following her death. He had been too busy trying to gather up the scattered Gurlukovich troops to think about much else, though he had briefly wondered if, by his presence, he might have been able to protect her.

He had quickly dismissed the notion as outmoded and patriarchal, yet he had returned to it from time to time. Sometimes, he even imagined that he had rescued her, that she loved him for it; but he was ashamed of these fantasies, and he hid them deep.

Vulich had never loved her, and he did not think he ever would have come to. At best, he had stood in a kind of half-terror and half-awe of her, for she alone had been able to understand the violent currents of his ambitions and his desires.

Until he had seen her ghost, it had not occurred to him that Olga might have her own life, apart from him, into which he had entered no more than she had entered into his own. That she might have her own secrets, and desires, and sad concealments. When he realized it, it had made him feel strangely nervous, as if he had some important task to attend to and no time left in which to complete it.

Anxious and troubled, Vulich dressed, putting his uniform into immaculate order, spared his unkempt hair a single pass with the fingers of both hands, and then went out for fresh air.

He knew that he was following a route through the corridors of Groznyj Grad that would not take him past the room where he had seen the phantom with the scarred face the night before. He knew, too, that once outside he chose to walk around the back of building rather than subject himself to the sight of broken glass on the pavement. He did it because he was afraid. His fear irritated him immensely, but he yielded to it, letting it carry him along.

As he crossed the lot that separated the main building from the small barracks where the Gurlukovich troops were quartered, the morning mist surrendered the figure of a man coming towards him. Vulich felt a weary resurgence of that old dread, but quickly forced it aside. He went on without hesitating or turning aside, conscious of each placement of one foot in front of the other, each incremental approach.

When the shadow called him by name, Vulich's blood ran cold.

"Lieutenant? Is that you? You're up early again—"

"Nikolai." The name came out in a strangled gasp, and Vulich found himself more irritated than relieved.

The boy coalesced out of the fog. Vulich could see that he was pale as death, except where his lips had turned blue from the cold. The shadows under his eyes seemed to have multiplied overnight.

"Didn't you sleep at all?" Vulich demanded, and he could tell by the way Kolya averted his gaze that he had not. His shoulders were hunched, as if a handful of snow had been slipped down his back and his hands betrayed a shaking nervousness.

Vulich tried to soften his demeanor. "Tell me what's wrong."

Kolya looked up at him with watery, red-rimmed eyes. He seemed about to speak, but he never got a chance.

It was at that moment that the Gurlukovich barracks erupted in flame.

Forty yards out from the building, Vulich saw the explosion before he heard it, felt the percussive displacement of air before his mind completely registered it. The black outline of the barracks emerged like a galleon out of the fog, and the sky turned red.

For a split second, Vulich could see Kolya's face very clearly. Eyes wide with unspoken emotion, he did not look older than he was, but in a way he seemed ageless. And then Vulich had him by the wrist and he was jerking him off his feet, throwing him down on the pavement. Vulich hit the ground beside him, and a roaring wave of hot air rolled over their backs.

A fist-sized piece of concrete hit the ground near his temple. Vulich did not hear it land; his ears were ringing from the explosion.

He sprang to his feet. The barracks was engulfed in a column of flame, and the pavement was littered with debris. Vulich was bleeding from a gash on the back of his wrist, from another along his ribs. He couldn't feel either of them, though the sleeve of his uniform was wet with blood from the cuff all the way to the elbow.

Vulich was not yet thinking that they were all dead, that they had all been betrayed again and that, if he had been astute, he could have prevented it. He was thinking only one name over and over again.

Revolver Ocelot.

And then he remembered Kolya was still with him.

The boy was still on the ground, face down on the pavement with his arms over his head. A curl of gray smoke rose from his scorched hair.

"Get up," Vulich tried to say, but he wasn't sure if he managed it. He couldn't hear his own voice over the pounding in his ears. He hauled Kolya to his feet and held him there until he had found his balance, then he pointed back towards the main compound, gesturing in that silent language of ambushing soldiers for Kolya to go.

Kolya shook his head fiercely. His skeletal fingers fastened onto Vulich's coat, refusing to let go.

Vulich relented. With Kolya straggling behind, he started toward the burning remains of the barracks. Thick black smoke was beginning to fill the air, and he didn't see the overnight guard Kostya Vladimirovich, until their paths nearly crossed.

Kostya was panting and red-faced from sprinting, breath steaming the icy air. His lips moved, but Vulich heard only a static blur and the staccato pounding of his own heart. He pushed his palms against his ears as if it might miraculously restore his hearing; blood from his cut wrist dripped into his mouth. Kostya was still shouting, stabbing at the air with one hand, gesturing frantically back in the direction he had come.

Vulich couldn't make sense of it. His head was spinning and he knew he was losing blood. When his vision started to blur, he wondered in a detached way if he would faint.

The sound of gunfire snapped him back to his senses.

Three shots. He heard them clearly, though everything else was still white noise.

Kostya froze, his expression going slack. His hands fell limp at his sides. A bloody flower bloomed on Kostya Vladimirovich's chest.

Slowly, his head rolled back so that he was looking up at the sky, and then he collapsed. It was only because he turned his gaze up that Vulich noticed the drone circling overhead.

It was a small ubiquitous mobile spy drones, modified with a machinegun where the camera should have been. It swiveled slowly on its axis, insectile, wobbling a little under the weight of the gun.

Vulich drew his pistol, and squeezed off a shot that struck one of the drone's rotary blades and sent it spinning to the ground where it burst into flames. He knelt, his movements quick and sure, the automatic pilot of a long-time soldier. A quick check of Kostya Vladimiovich's pulse confirmed what Vulich had already known: he was dead.

As he straightened up once more, he felt Kolya's fingers close around his arm. Vulich could hear a soft wailing sound, like a far away siren, but when he turned to look he realized that the boy was screaming.

Vulich slapped him once on the right cheek and Kolya quieted at once. He looked up at him; Vulich was seized with dread when he realized that Kolya still trusted him to get them out of here alive.

"Come on," he said. He heard a sound like radio static instead of the words, but it was an improvement over absolute silence.

Taking Kolya's hand in his, Vulich started back towards the main building. He didn't know what he would do once he got there, save that somehow he would find Revolver Ocelot, and somehow he would kill him.


	37. Chapter 37

Ocelot had not planned to attend Novikov's demonstration of the new Metal Gear. At some point, Novikov's boasts about the machine's superiority to human soldiers had ceased to amuse Ocelot and begun to irritate him. And now, after what he had seen the night before, he was forced to admit that they might all be horribly true.

It was first for the sake of maintaining his pride that Ocelot had refused to witness the demonstration, but it was for the sake of conquering his fear that he resolved to go now.

He had not slept much the night before. Not a man to put much stock in nightmares, Ocelot was still deeply disturbed by the red light he saw whenever he closed his eyes, as if Matryona had imprinted her vigilant gaze upon the insides of his lids.

The utter calm had not done much to relax his sense of foreboding either. Ocelot knew now that Raikov was gone; but he could not say whether he had finally accepted the truth that he was dead, or whether he had simply foreseen Ocelot's own impending demise and gone on ahead a few steps to prepare for him.

If it was a guide to Hell he needed, he couldn't hope for a better one than Raikov. He already knew the way intimately.

Ocelot rose early that morning and dressed with immaculate care. He shined his boots, brushed his uniform, even combed out his long hair before he tied it back again. It seemed right somehow; the dignified thing to do.

He buffed the nickel plating on his guns and then he went out into the hall. All was silent. The stillness of death was upon the place. Ocelot saw no one on his way to the basement lab. Remarkably, neither Vulich nor Kolya appeared from the shadows to pester him. If only they knew, Ocelot thought, how deeply entrenched in his dealings they had become, how ominous it seemed now that they were gone.

When Ocelot stepped off the elevator in the underground bunker, he saw no sign of Innokenty. Novikov was bustling, brisk and efficient, trying to be everywhere at once. He had been busy while Ocelot was away: A bank of monitors had been set up in the center of the lab, and most of them glowed with a different view of the compound. Novikov was dividing his attention between getting the rest of them up and running, and snapping orders at the few hen-pecked engineers in his service.

"What's this?" Ocelot said, examining a monitor with a clear few of Groznyj Grad's main entrance. "Having a Super Bowl party?"

"Shalashaska, I'll thank you to keep your hideous Americanisms to yourself. Unlike those barbarians in the West, I can derive no joy from the spectacle of huge brutes tackling each other for hours on end. Ugh!"

"This is going to be a pacifistic demonstration, then? You never told me your machine was an expert negotiator as well."

"Some collateral damage may be involved," Novikov said tersely, and whisked away.

He was in a good mood today. Ocelot could tell by how hard he was trying to hide it. "Doctor?" he called after him.

"What is it now?" Novikov snapped.

"Where's Innokenty?"

Novikov raised an eyebrow. "I must say, your maternal instinct has really kicked in lately, Shalashaska. It's probably for the best that you don't have any children of your own. You'd practically smother them."

Ocelot said nothing at first. He had the unshakable feeling that something was happening here, right before his very eyes it was happening. He could understand – he knew he could. If could only find the end of this knot, he could begin the unwinding…

And still Novikov was watching him with the arrogant superiority of a man who is keeping a secret. Obviously he had not yet learned of Ocelot's visit to Matryona's hangar the night before. Or could it be that was not what he was thinking about at all?

How strange that Novikov's eyes were almost the exact same color as Ocelot's own. It was a strange coincidence to be sure. No wonder Vulich had thought they looked alike enough to be related. He could see only the surface of things, Ocelot thought disdainfully; if he ever learned to look a little deeper he would see that there was in fact no resemblance at all.

"Doctor," Ocelot said with a patient smile. "You're about to send that boy to war, more or less. There's no one here who can understand what he's thinking right now besides me. If you let me talk to him, I can calm his nerves."

"With your excellent bedside manner, I assume?" Novikov said dryly.

"Listen, I've poured too much work into this little exercise of yours to have it fail because of some easily preventable human error."

He laid the emphasis heavily on that word – human – and watched Novikov bunch up against himself as if it were profane. "It's not going to fail. We have a little time; I'll let you look in on Kesha. But… it would not have failed."

Novikov led him to one of the small offices that fractured off the main lab. He tapped lightly on the door – something Ocelot realized he had never seen him do before – and then let them in. The room was bare, and Innokenty was seated cross-legged on the floor in the center. His head snapped up when they entered, and when he saw Novikov, his expression twisted with reproach. Then he caught sight of Ocelot there behind him, and it softened once more.

"Shalashaska insisted on speaking with you," Novikov said, with a shrug that seemed to indicate that whatever solitude Innokenty had asked for, hoped for, Novikov could have intruded upon it any time he wished.

"It's all right," Innokenty said. "If it's only Shalashaska."

"There's no accounting for taste…" Novikov said with a sigh. He cocked his wrists, pointing at Ocelot with both hands, a gesture that was half-ridiculous and half-threatening. "I'll be back in five minutes."

Ocelot waited until he was gone.

"Innokenty," he said once the door had closed. "I saw her."

"I know."

Innokenty's pupils were so dilated his eyes looked black. There was an electronic sensor pasted onto his left temple, almost hidden behind the blond shag of his hair. A green wire jutted out from it like a cowlick.

"Do you understand what's going to happen now?" Ocelot asked suddenly.

Innokenty shrugged. "Matryona is going to kill them."

"You're going to kill them."

"Yes." Innokenty's lips twisted into a frown. "That too."

"Then you've accepted it?" Ocelot said it like he would if he were talking to a grown man. He knew that Innokenty was old enough to understand.

"I think so. Maybe." Again, that frown, one of intense concentration. "I don't know what death looks like."

"Are you asking me to explain it?" Ocelot asked.

"You don't have to. I'll see for myself soon enough."

Whatever Innokenty saw, it would be colored by Matryona's computerized brain. It would not be death, but it would be something like it. A very clever imitation, a breathtaking special effect. There would be a distance between the murderer and the murdered, as clear but as certain as a television screen. But then, imagine a television you could never turn off, a film you could never look away from, no matter how much you came to hate what you saw.

"Innokenty," Ocelot said quietly. "Why did you tell me where to find her? Were you warning me? Or…"

"I was trying to help you," Innokenty replied. "I wanted you to find her."

"You know, I prefer to work alone, Innokenty."

"I do know. But, listen, Shalashaska. I want to tell you something funny. When we first feeding the raw combat data into Matryona's programming, your name would come up on a file and all the lab techs would groan. You were so hard to quantify. In the early stages of the AI, your data even crashed the program a few times. But then it started to learn you. And I started to learn you, too. Because the best thing, the best part of all, was that you would show up and the ending would change. Things kept trying to go back to normal, back to the way they were planned, but you wouldn't let them. You bent the future, pushed it into the shape you wanted it to be."

"It wasn't what I wanted," Ocelot said. "It's never been about what I wanted."

"A part of you wanted it," Innokenty said firmly. "Because you have to want something, or else you just… just die, I guess. You die, and then you disappear."

"If that's true, then what do you want, Innokenty?"

"I wanted you to change this ending," the boy replied. His voice was flat, unaffected. There were no unshed tears in his eyes. "But it's too late now."

"It's not, as long as you don't think of this as the end."

Innokenty nodded, seeming to agree without even having heard Ocelot's words at all. He was young, Ocelot reminded himself. Years ahead of him to come to understand. There was no time now to explain; Novikov would be returning any second. No time for apologies either, but, maybe, enough time for a question…

"Is Novikov…?" Innokenty looked up, his head snapping back as if Ocelot had startled him. He seemed to see him for the first time.

Ocelot tried again. "Innokenty. Is Novikov my…?"

"He's coming," Innokenty hissed, and Ocelot's throat constricted around the last word, strangling it.

Novikov breezed back into the small room, this time not bothering to knock at all. If he had hoped to catch part of Ocelot and Innokenty's conversation – and almost certainly he had – he was sorely disappointed, for when he entered the two were staring at each other in mute stoicism.

"How was the impromptu therapy session?" he said.

"I feel much better, sir," Innokenty replied, his voice barely a whisper.

"That is indeed a relief," Novikov said. "And I think that it's time to begin. Shalashaska, if you'll follow me, I'll make sure you have a good view of the proceedings."

Ocelot followed him out, though not without sparing Innokenty a final glance. The boy was not watching him leave.

"He's ready," Novikov said firmly. "He's more than ready for this."

He showed Ocelot to the bank of monitors. All of them were up and running, showing him the gates of Groznyj Grad, the Gurlukovich barracks, the interior corridors of the main building. The mountain where Matryona's hangar was hidden.

Some of the external shots were grainy and seemed to flicker slightly. There was a slightly unreal quality to some of the textures.

"The damned fog is too thick for a clear shot," Novikov said, noticing where Ocelot was looking. "We had to improvise something using the infrared cameras and the sonar seismographs. Considering the short notice I had, I'm amazed I managed to pull it off."

"It seems a like a lot of trouble to go to so that we can huddle underground."

"Snug as a bug in a rug," Novikov said with a thin smile. His jaw tightened, activating the CODEC that Ocelot had not, until now, realized that he had.

"Kesha," Novikov said. "Begin whenever you're ready."

Ocelot found his eyes drawn to the screen that showed the exterior of the Metal Gear's hangar. He watched it intently, hardly daring even to blink. It seemed too convenient that anything would happen, that he would see anything at all. And yet he thought that he must. There would have to be some confirmation or denial.

In the end, there was only a thin ribbon of static sliding leisurely across the screen. The first explosion came appeared on the other side of the bank of monitors.

By the time Ocelot turned to look, the Gurlukovich barracks were engulfed in a column of red flame.

"A direct hit, Kesha!" Novikov blurted out, and then he paused, listening to a voice on the other end of the CODEC. "Well, I know that you know. Keep it up. Don't rest on your laurels yet."

Now, white comets were streaking through the frames. They were not moving so quickly, but the motion blurs they left suggested great speed.

"Seek-and-destroy drones," Novikov informed him. "The cameras are having a hard time locking onto them. There ought to be eight men patrolling the grounds this morning. By now, they'll have heard the explosion and will be coming to investigate, which makes the 'seek' part rather redundant. Fortunately, I have a contingency plan…"

Ocelot saw that Novikov had been correct in his assumptions. Two men in Gurlukovich uniforms were coming from the guard tower by the eastern gate. Running full out, they crossed two screens before they were stopped in their tracks on the third. The first took a bullet in the back of the neck by Ocelot's best estimation. His momentum carried him forward a few more steps, though by that point he was already dead. His companion halted, turned a slow, bewildered, circle. And then his knees buckled and he crumpled to the pavement.

There had been no sound, no smell of fear. From here, Ocelot couldn't even see any blood. He felt nothing at all, not even contempt.

The whole display took no more than ten minutes. The barracks were burning steadily; there were eight corpses scattered around the base. The drones had pulled back into a holding pattern, and Novikov was checking his watch in an exaggerated show of impatience.

The stillness below ground was absolute, but above ground there was still movement.

Ocelot first caught sight of the two men on one of the lower monitors. They crossed out of the frame before he could get a good look at them, but by the time they reappeared again on another screen, he had already guessed their identities.

Lieutenant Vulich had seen better days. His once immaculate uniform was torn and scorched; the right sleeve was soaked through with blood. In spite of all that, he looked animated and alive in a way Ocelot had never seen. He was dragging the boy, Kolya, behind him. Ocelot recognized him though his head was down and his face obscured.

"Looks like you forgot something," Ocelot said.

"Not at all," Novikov replied. "I need them for phase two."

His eyes lingered a moment longer on the screen where Vulich and Kolya struggled, then, with a sudden violence, he turned away. "They're heading for the east entrance. Come, Shalashaska. If we hurry we can meet them."

He started toward the elevator, and Ocelot followed. He glanced back to see Innokenty standing in the door of the private office, and with a look Ocelot warned him to stay put.

On the way upstairs, Novikov rallied the two sentries at the elevator and ordered them along. They came, unquestioning, holding their rifles at the ready with the precision of marchers in a military parade. As the two guards fell into step behind him, Ocelot couldn't shake the feeling that they were not meant for Vulich at all. They were meant for him.

They stepped out into the frosty morning. The sun had not risen yet, but the horizon had begun to grow light. The fog was starting to dissipate, but there was now an unpleasant haze in the air from the fire at the barracks. It was a black, rank, toxic smoke: chemicals and burning flesh.

Vulich came across the lot towards them. He was dragging Kolya by the wrist, jerking him along with each lurching step, so that it seemed Kolya stayed on his feet only out of momentum. Vulich had not once looked back at him, not once slowed or hesitated or even tried to speak. It was as if he had forgotten Kolya was behind him at all. But his grip never loosened.

Ocelot pushed the tails of his coat back and reached for his revolver. Novikov shook his head. "Don't. Not yet."

He could hear now Vulich's ragged breathing; the breathing of a man who does not yet know how badly he is injured. When he saw them waiting for him, he skidded to a halt. He seemed shocked to see Ocelot and Novikov together, though surely he had expected collusion between them. It annoyed Ocelot to see Vulich uncertain, gaping; it annoyed him still further that he had let himself be cowed into inaction by Novikov.

It was Kolya who spoke first, wedged back behind Vulich's shoulder, he seemed to have no more substance than a shadow. "Shalashaska…?"

The word seemed to course through Vulich's body like an electric shock. He jerked upright, manipulated by strings. "What have you done…?"

"Nothing, except try to warn you that this would happen," Ocelot replied. He felt the chilly satisfaction that only a plan well executed could bring him, the security that seemed to always come right when the situation was most desperate.

"Why?" Vulich said. But he seemed to realize the moment the word was out that the answer did not matter, that he no longer cared to hear it. He thrust Kolya back with one arm, and the other dove for his pistol. Red Army, standard issue. What poetry, to die by a shot from a gun like that, Ocelot thought. Not that he would die.

Vulich's movements seemed absurdly slow, movements from a dream. Ocelot went for his own weapon, his hand swinging down in a movement that seemed a cross between a pendulum swinging and a trap snapping closed. His fingers were already making the hollow half circle, the sliver moon, into which the sandalwood grip would fit.

But his hand closed only on empty air.

"Thank you for your attentiveness," Novikov said. "But I prefer to handle the situation myself."

Ocelot turned sharply to face him, and he was shocked to see his own revolver cradled in Novikov's hand. Absurd notions sprang into Ocelot's mind: hypnosis, telekinesis, hallucinogens. However, he needed only see the ease with which Novikov handled the revolver, the comfortable way it fit into his grip, to know that no trickery had been needed. Novikov had merely taken advantage of the split-second that Ocelot was distracted, and slipped his revolver out of the holster.

But such speed, Ocelot thought. Even he had not been so quick, so steady, in many years. Not since he was a very young man.

"Lieutenant," Novikov went on blithely, "Did you pull that out so we could compare our pieces?"

Vulich was standing with his pistol in his hand, seemingly more baffled by the sudden shift in control than Ocelot was. Poor kid, Ocelot thought. He has no idea who to shoot.

Novikov gave the revolver an experimental twirl, flicking his wrist so it spun around his index finger. "Lieutenant Vulich, listen closely. You have aroused my scientific curiosity. Your men are dead, but you are not, and that is no accident or oversight. Your vital signs are programmed into Matryona's memory the same as all the Gurlukovich troops, but I have not let her kill you yet. The others were too easy: crammed together, baffled, frightened. There is no honor in a victory like that."

"Then… it was you?" Vulich managed at last. "You did this?"

Novikov smiled. "You're not very smart, Lieutenant. Certainly not wise at all. But you have a will to fight. I won't call it intangible, simply immeasurable by current scientific methods. I'll give you a thirty minute head start, and then Matryona's drones will pursue you. They know the shape of you, the scent of you, the very rhythm of your heartbeat. You can't hide from them, but if you run…"

Here, Novikov shrugged, and spun the revolver again thoughtfully. "There is a twenty kilometer perimeter around this base. It's a security precaution. The drones will not pass through it. Matryona will not search beyond it. Maybe you'll live, if you run."

"I don't understand," Vulich said. His cheeks were pallid, his eyes wild, even damp, like he might at any moment begin to cry from bewilderment and terror. Ocelot was sick at the thought of it. He hoped that Novikov would just shoot Vulich and get it over with. Spare them all that humiliating scene…

"What is there to understand?" Novikov said with a frown. "I'm letting you go. Stay here and argue with me if you like, but Matryona will cut you down. The countdown has already begun. It's out of my hands."

Ocelot saw Vulich's intentions a second before he moved. However, this time when he brought his pistol up to bear, it was smoother, less clumsy than before. Still, he was no match for Novikov, whose arm moved in a blur, seemingly without motion at all. It was simply in one place, and then in another, with nothing in between.

The shot echoed off the mountains, came back to them again and again. Vulich drew back, his whole body winding up tight in anticipation of the impact, but he did not crumple, did not fall. Novikov, so confident and self-assured a moment ago, had missed him completely.

But then, that soft gasp, more surprise than pain. Ocelot realized that Novikov's aim had been dead-on after all.

Kolya sank down on one knee, clutching the opposite leg in both hands. He was bleeding from a hole in his thigh, bleeding in a slow pulsing that indicated the bullet had missed the artery. He gasped. "Lieutenant…?"

Vulich turned. He seemed surprised to see Kolya there, as if he had forgotten he had dragged him so mercilessly. Who could blame him, though? That boy was so easy to misremember. So easy to look at him and not see him at all.

But Vulich turned his back on Novikov, and he knelt at Kolya's side, pressing the palm of one hand against the wound. He muttered a stream of curses – all in Russian; he seemed to find nothing suitable to revert to in his native Kazakh.

Novikov frowned petulantly. "Leave him, Alexei. You have to. He'll never make it like that. It'll play hell with the results of the experiment."

"Get up," Vulich said without turning back to look at Novikov. Kolya only whimpered quietly, as if afraid of attracting too much attention to himself. Even now, afraid of people noticing him. When he didn't respond, Vulich's voice hardened.

"Nikolai, stand up at once. You will stand up. And I'll help you, but we have to go now."

Kolya looked up, seeing Vulich's face as if for the first time. He was pale, pale as death, but his eyes were focused. He hooked one arm over Vulich's shoulders in an awkward half-embrace. The stiff arms-length embrace of someone unaccustomed to being touched. Vulich grabbed him by the waist, hauling him to his feet. A jet of murky blood spurted out of Kolya's thigh, but he gave only one short, soft cry.

"Take the east gate out," Novikov said helpfully. "You'll be able to take cover in the forest there."

Vulich said nothing, gave no indication that he had heard, but he began to guide Kolya toward the eastern exit. They moved slowly, carefully. Kolya stumbled frequently, and when he did Vulich caught him and set him right again. It took a long time for the fog to swallow them up again.

When they were gone, Novikov shook his head. "I suppose it's no use trying to reason with some people. But you can't say I didn't give him a chance… Maybe I should have just killed that boy outright. But you saw what he did! He's just so stubborn."

He twirled the gun again around his finger, caught it by the barrel with a flourish and presented it back to Ocelot. "Thank you for the loan, Shalashaska. Horrible things, guns are."

Novikov heaved another disappointed sigh and started back inside, leaving Ocelot to replay the events of the past few minutes over and over again, as if, by repetition, he might wring some meaning from them.


	38. Chapter 38

They awoke before dawn and dressed in darkness, then they took their flashlights and their guns and left the Jeep behind on the side of the road.

Raiden was stiff from a night spent in the back seat. Sleeping, or at least pretending to. He knew that he had dozed for a while – ten minutes, an hour? – but he felt anxious and unrefreshed. His limbs were leaden, and with each step his boots seemed to sink deeper into the spongy ground of the forest.

He followed the indistinct shape of Vamp's back, occasionally tipping the beam of his flashlight up from the path so that he jumped into sharp contrast. Raiden had thought that going up against Ocelot would be easier if he didn't have to do it alone, but now that it was all coming down, Vamp's presence was making him very jumpy. He was another body in the field, another variable to account for.

Vamp had been quiet lately. He had not tried to touch Raiden the night before, though Raiden had waited, crumpled up awkwardly in the back seat, for him to make a move. It seemed pretty unlikely that Vamp hadn't noticed. He had only been pretending, then; politely feigning ignorance.

Raiden didn't like it. He was naive and inexperienced compared to Vamp, but he wasn't completely clueless. It was over, and that was that. Vamp wasn't so goddamned good in the sack that Raiden was going to beg him for another go at it.

Yes, that was good. That was the professional way to handle things, and on top of that it was just common sense. You start spending a lot of time with someone, you start doing all kinds of nice things for them, you start letting them screw you regularly, then one day you wake up and you realize that you've fallen in love.

And that was when they really started screwing you.

It would be a lot easier to get up the mountain without all these bullshit feelings weighing him down, Raiden thought. There was probably still time to talk, to blunder through a conversation and maybe, just by chance, stumble upon something that would make it all make sense. You couldn't do that kind of shit once the fighting started, but maybe now…

Raiden looked skeptically at Vamp's turned back. He seemed confident, unconcerned. At least one of them ought to be.

That was the thing about Vamp: even when he wasn't in control of the situation, you sort of thought that he was. He had such a tight hold on himself that it cast a shadow on everything he came in contact with. One minute he was making up cute little pet names and telling you what he was going to do to you when he got you alone, and the next he was like this: cold-minded, blank, a cipher.

Raiden wondered if Vamp's great passions were anything more than elaborate acts, if he ever really felt anything at all. He must, or else he would never have come this far on the strength of a dead woman's memory.

No, Vamp was too smart to be some emotionless kill-bot; he was too enamored with living. Raiden had known that from the start, and so, he supposed, what he actually wanted to know was whether or not Vamp had ever really felt anything for him.

He couldn't bear it. All this emotional crap, this chick stuff. And then, before he could stop himself, he was thinking of Rose, of the way she would blindside him with all those inane little questions: "Tell me something about yourself that no one else knows, Jack." "What's the most beautiful thing you have ever seen, Jack?" "Do you believe in God, Jack?"

Invariably, he would stammer out something banal. Incoherent, if he was lucky. And she would smile at him, that placid little pitying smile, like she didn't know that all he wanted to do was go and watch some TV.

In a lot of ways, she had been too good for him. That was nothing new. Hell, maybe when he got back to New York he'd introduce her to Vamp. They'd probably hit it off. Here was a man who would give her all the talk she wanted…

"Are you all right?" Vamp said softly, casting the words back over his shoulder.

"I'm fine."

Vamp made a little sound that could have meant anything. A minute later, he stepped off to the side of the path and fiddled with his flashlight. When Raiden came up next to him, Vamp fell into step at his side.

There hadn't been anything wrong with the damn light, Raiden thought, seething. Vamp thought he was stupid; thought he was pitiable like only a small, stupid, miserable creature could be. A creature so stupid it doesn't even understand its own misery…

Raiden felt tears come to his eyes, and he was so shocked he stopped in mid-stride.

Vamp stopped beside him and looked at him patiently, without annoyance. Raiden felt a shot of panic, the sensation of the bottom dropping out of his stomach. It was too dark to see his face, he reminded himself. And besides, he wasn't really crying. There was only that pressure behind his eyes, that flood of heat in the pit just above his bottom lashes.

He wasn't going to start crying, because what the hell would that solve? And what would Vamp think? He had lost his shit completely back in Arefu, but he still hadn't cried. He'd known where that would get him.

"It's not much further now," Vamp said. "It's been a long week. Longer, I think, than either of us accounted for. But it won't be much further."

Raiden was silent, catching his breath.

"Do you remember why you're here, Jack?"

"Of course I do."

"And does it still seem as sound a reason as it did the first night you dared to speak it aloud?"

"I was drunk that night," Raiden said hoarsely. "But I guess it's still okay."

"I was drunk too. But I don't really think the alcohol makes you say anything. I think it only lets you."

"I could sure use a drink right now."

"The kind that loosens your tongue?" Vamp said. "Or the kind that steadies your nerves?"

Raiden looked up at him, though he could make out only the vague outlines of his features. For a moment, he couldn't remember what Vamp looked like at all, and he felt a knot form in his throat.

"Second one," he said. And then, "Come on. Let's keep moving."

***

By the time the sun rose, they had been climbing steadily for the past two hours. The mountain had taken a steep turn a ways back, and Raiden was starting to feel the strain on his calves. He was out of shape, hadn't been hitting the gym with any kind of frequency back home. He'd figured that as long as he wasn't getting fat or anything he could get away with it, and he wasn't going to pretend that kind of civilian freedom hadn't been a nice change. But he was no civilian now, and he was paying the price for ever thinking he could make believe otherwise.

He kept shooting little glances at Vamp, wondering if he ought to ask if they could rest. Maybe it would be better if he just announced it, though. Vamp wasn't his boss or anything. They were partners, just like he kept saying…

Raiden tasted bile in the back of his throat, a small hot stone of bitterness. He couldn't remember a time when he had felt anything in the hours leading up to a fight except tension and terror to be suppressed. Any other time, and he would have thought of it as an improvement, but right now it just felt like another obstacle to trip him up.

Vamp's hand came down on his shoulder, holding him up. When Raiden looked up at him, Vamp jerked his head up the path, towards the place where it vanished into the trees. Raiden hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary, but he kept very still for a moment, balancing on the balls of his feet in an attitude of strained alertness.

Then, he heard footsteps. They were approaching quickly, without much care. Raiden could hear the undergrowth rattling before them, the imprecise step, drag, step, drag rhythm that indicated a limp. He looked up at Vamp and flashed him two fingers, twitching his eyebrows in inquiry.

Vamp nodded. He had heard two of them too.

With a flick of his wrist, Vamp indicated a tangle of brush on the left side of the path. He gave Raiden a nudge toward it. Raiden recognized an order when he saw it, and he slipped quickly off the path and secured himself out of sight. When he looked back, Vamp had disappeared as well, but the wet ground still held the impressions of their boots. Raiden's lips stirred, moving without sound through every curse word he could think of.

He stopped abruptly, when he realized he could no longer hear the approaching footsteps.

Raiden reached for the pistol tucked into his belt. He was replaying the last few seconds in his mind, trying to remember if he had made a noise while slipping into his hiding place, some sound that had given them away. God, he hoped it hadn't been him. Vamp would never say a word about it, but he would notice, and he would not forget.

Using the tips of his fingers to hold the fabric away from the barrel, Raiden pulled the gun from his belt. It felt heavy in his hand, treacherous and weirdly unfamiliar. He remembered that he used to have dreams that he was lying in an ambush like this, but when the moment came to fight he couldn't remember any of his training and his weapon turned into a handful of sand.

Raiden waited what seemed a long time. Still, there was no sound, no movement, no hint that there had ever been anything but the two of them in this forest. He wondered how long Vamp would want to wait. You had to be pretty thorough about these things, but he didn't want to waste the whole morning on a chipmunk or something…

Then, all at once, he knew he was being watched. He hadn't heard anything, or seen anything, or smelled anything, and yet he knew. And before the thought had even finished winding its way up to the higher places in his brain, Raiden was halfway around and his gun was up and the safety was off.

He caught a glimpse of something metallic, a bright flash in his peripheral vision. His hand went out towards it, and his fingers closed around a wrist. He pushed the gun aside, pointing it away from him.

A weight struck him in the chest, and Raiden fell back. He still had hold of the gunhand, and it passed over him as he fell. Three drops of some hot liquid spattered on his face, and his mouth flooded with the hepatitis-y taste of a stranger's blood. A knee connected with his crotch, too convenient to be an accident. Raiden yelped, and they were both propelled back, out into the open.

They tumbled over once, twice. Raiden was on top, slamming the hand that held the gun against the ground; then he was on the bottom and there was an elbow jammed into his throat, crushing the breath out of him. Then they seemed poised to go over again, when the weight on Raiden's chest was snatched abruptly away.

Vamp was standing over him. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the stranger's gun arching into the undergrowth. He squirmed a little at that, shifting in Vamp's grip but not making a sound.

Raiden slowly got to his feet, rubbing his aching throat and breathing in choked gasps. At least it was a distraction from his bruised balls…

"Look at his uniform," Vamp said. He had a knife pressed to the stranger's throat with one hand, and with the other he was cupping his jaw. Barely holding him at all, and yet the young soldier had gone rigid and silent in his grip. His eye moved balefully between them, and occasionally he stamped one boot or the other upon the ground like a tethered horse, but otherwise he was still.

"Gurlukovich…" Raiden murmured. His voice was raw, and he went back to massaging his throat. "Jesus, he fights dirty. You never run into NATO or the Red Cross like this…"

"How's your Russian, Jack?"

"Shit," Raiden replied. "How about yours?"

"The last time I had any was fifth grade. If you want, I can ask him how many carrots he has."

Raiden sighed. The soldier's eyes were fixed on him and he didn't like it. He had a way of looking at you… Raiden had seen it before, but he couldn't say exactly where. He only knew that he didn't like it.

"Our. Russian. Very. Bad." he said loudly, punctuating each word with a shake of his head and an exaggerated frowny face.

"Jack…" said Vamp.

"Don't laugh. This is how I got through my summer abroad in France."

"I can understand you," the soldier said, in unfaltering English. He set a hand on the inside of Vamp's wrist, pushing the knife away from his throat. "Let me go."

Vamp dropped his hand, and the soldier wrenched away from him. There was a deep gash in one his arms; the sleeve of his uniform was black with blood, and fat drops of blood fell intermittently from the tips of his fingers. With his free hand, he touched the bleeding arm once, skirting carefully around the wound.

"My name's Vulich." He jerked his eyes between the two of them. "I recognize you both. That ought to spare us awkward introductions. I suppose you're going up there?"

"We're looking for Revolver Ocelot," Raiden said. He did not glance at Vamp when he spoke, thinking that he might be on the receiving end of a chastening look.

"He's there," Vulich replied. He paced, three steps down then three steps back, like a man pursued. He held his injured arm close against his body. "You're almost too late. But maybe…"

His head whipped around, and he squinted back into the trees that swallowed the path. "Pardon me a moment," he said, and turned his back on them.

"Wait!" Raiden fumbled for his gun, but Vulich went on as if he hadn't heard. And by the time Raiden had it out, he felt a little silly and mean spirited about it. Guiltily, he slid the pistol back into his belt.

"What's wrong with him?" he muttered.

"I think it's obvious, Jack," Vamp said. "Something has frightened him very badly."

"A big tough guy like that…" Raiden wasn't happy to hear that, not exactly, but there was always something assuring in meeting a stranger who was worse off than he was.

"You never know what's in people's lives."

Raiden didn't get a chance to reply. Vulich was coming back now, not alone. The thin boy with him wore the Gurlukovich colors, but he didn't look like much of a fighting man. He was leaning heavily on Vulich's shoulder and dragging one leg behind him.

"He's injured," Vulich said.

"So are you," Vamp replied. He touched Vulich's arm, a small solicitous gesture. "Why don't you let me take care of you?"

Raiden looked away, finding himself suddenly very intrigued by whatever was going on in the opposite direction. Moss growing, or whatever. Vamp really didn't have very much in the way of standards; anything with a pulse was good enough for him. He didn't have much in the way of subtlety, either. Or timing…

"You won't make it very far like this," Vamp coaxed.

Vulich's eyes flicked down to Vamp's hand, and then up to the sky. He scanned it, horizon to horizon, as if he could see right through the canopy of trees. Sweat shone at his temples, and he was pale. His lips had turned a gray, pasty color.

"I want my gun," he said at last.

"Of course," Vamp said. And then, "Jack, I threw it over there."

"Hey, wait a second—"

"It's not as if I'm going to shoot you!" Vulich snapped. For a second, the color came back to his face, and then immediately waned again. "I just… want it."

Raiden glanced between them, knowing that he was on the wrong end of their impromptu alliance. So much for a partnership. "All right," he said quietly. "I'll look for it."

While he stomped off to dig through the pine needles, he was aware of Vamp talking softly – too softly to overhear – and of Vulich murmuring right back. He was starting to realize that Vamp only really liked a person when he was saving them from themselves. Once the daring rescue was over, he got bored pretty quickly.

Maybe that wasn't fair, though. Vamp had said that Vulich was scared. Maybe the whole gallant act was just for his benefit. Raiden didn't know if it would do much good. He'd been plenty scared before, and if someone had come at him all considerate and concerned like Vamp had, Raiden would probably have panicked and broken his nose.

Whatever the case, he had to stop thinking about it now. It was too much for one day. He could either worry about Revolver Ocelot, or he could worry about his pathetic personal life, but he couldn't do both at once.

Raiden found Vulich's pistol wedged under a rotting branch. It was a weird looking piece, with a barrel that seemed too short and a rounded firing pin. The metal was spotted with tarnish, and the leather finish on the grip had long since been rubbed smooth. The little gold hammer and cycle down by the butt had turned green with age. Raiden weighted the gun in his hand curiously. It had a strange heft to it: not off balance or anything, but not like what he was used to.

There was no accounting for taste.

He took the gun back to where the other three were waiting. Vamp was bent over the younger soldier's leg while Vulich watched them like a hawk. He glanced up when Raiden came near.

"Alexei says they're testing some kind of weapon further up the mountain," Vamp said.

Raiden felt his pulse beat at his temples. One knock, two, and then it was gone. "Alexei, huh? Since when are you two on a first name basis? Did you invite him to your Tupperware party next week?"

A little line of tension appeared between Vamp's eyes. "Would you please take a look at his arm, Jack? I've got my hands full here."

"Fine," Raiden sighed.

He crouched down, handing the pistol over to Vulich. "That thing belongs in a museum."

"It has sentimental value," Vulich said. He slid the gun back into its holster, and then presented his arm.

Raiden peeled back the sodden material of his uniform. A long gash ran along his bicep, parallel to the bone. It was bleeding, a slow sustained flow.

"It ought to have stitches," Raiden said. "I can do it, if you want. I practiced on fetal pigs plenty of times."

"Yes, I think you're right."

Raiden looked up at his face. Most people didn't agree to field surgery that easily. If Vulich was scared, he was doing a damn good job hiding it. While Raiden retrieved the supplies from their little medical kit, Vulich tore the hole in the sleeve of his uniform wider.

"You really saw Revolver Ocelot?" Raiden said. He came back with a sturdy needle, cupping the thread that trailed from it carefully in one disinfected hand.

"I saw him," Vulich replied.

"Really? You're sure?"

Vulich gave him a cutting look. "Certain."

He watched Raiden's hands carefully as he prepared, but glanced quickly away when he began to stitch. A little ways away, Raiden could hear Vamp doing something to that kid's chewed up leg that was making him whimper. Kind of a pathetic sound, really. Raiden didn't want to listen to it anymore. He started talking then, just to take up space.

"I guess he's still there," he said. "Ocelot, I mean. We've been looking for him. It's not what you think, though. I just want to ask him a question. Adrian – I mean, Vamp – might have something different in mind, though."

"You're going to kill him," Vulich said. His voice was steady, only the slightest hitch in it each time the needle went in. "It's all right. I don't have any particular devotion to Revolver Ocelot."

"Who does?"

"I don't know. I don't keep up with gossip."

"It was a rhetorical question," Raiden said, frowning.

"I don't think you understand what's happening…" Vulich said quietly.

"Some kind of a weapons test, right? Is the security tight or something?"

"My men were the security," Vulich said. His voice sounded strange, faraway, like they were talking on the phone over a bad connection. "They're all dead now. He said he could kill me, too, any time he wanted."

"That sounds like Ocelot, all right…"

"I'm not talking about Ocelot," Vulich snapped. "Nikolai and I have been walking since dawn, but nothing else has come down the mountain. It should have overtaken us by now. Something is wrong up there…"

"I don't know," Raiden said. "I'd rather not get involved in the details or whatever. I did the whole 'unravel the conspiracy' thing once before and I didn't really like it much. I just want to keep things straightforward this time. I'm going to find Ocelot, and I'm going to ask him just this one simple thing. And then, maybe, I'll be able to sleep at night."

"What makes you think he'll tell you the truth?"

"Nothing," Raiden admitted. "Except that it's not really anything to him. What Olga said to me, or…"

The needle jumped in his hand as Vulich suddenly grew very tense.

"Sorry," Raiden said. "I forgot she was your boss."

"I know that he murdered her…"

"He didn't," Raiden said as he put in the last stitch. "It was… well, it's complicated. But Ocelot was there. I'm not trying to say he didn't have any part in it. But, no. It wasn't him."

Vulich said nothing. When Raiden looked up, he turned his face away. His face was still very pale, a bloodless mask.

"That ought to do it," Raiden said, cutting the thread with his combat knife. "You'd better stay put for a while. You look pretty bad."

When Vulich still did not reply, Raiden shifted over to crouch next to Vamp. Kolya was slumped against the trunk of a pine tree, his eyes wide open, his chest moving in rapid gulping breaths.

"Is he okay?"

Vamp nodded. "He'll be fine. I gave him a shot of that morphine Leta packed in our lunches. Don't tell his friend over there."

He finished dressing the wound in Kolya's leg, then leaned back, tipping his canteen over his bloodstained hands to wash them. "What shall we do now, Jack?"

Raiden shrugged. "Keep going, I guess. Ocelot's up there, and that's all I need to know. Trying to think about the rest just makes me tired."

"All right, then. We'll make things easy for you."

Kolya was stirring now. Both hands were thrust out before him, groping for a handhold. He sat halfway up, then rolled back bonelessly. Vamp caught him before he cracked his head on the trunk of the pine tree.

He picked up his canteen, rattled the last few inches of water in the bottom of it, and then held it to Kolya's lips. The boy drank thirstily, spilling as much as he got down. He didn't seem to notice, though, and Raiden wondered if he wouldn't benefit from one of those morphine capsules himself right about now.

"Anyway," he said. "Vulich said there was a base up there. We can probably get him to give us the floor plan or something."

"That won't be necessary."

Startled, Raiden turned around. He hadn't heard Vulich get up, but he was standing over them now. His arm was still bent in close to his body, held at that awkward angle, but if it still pained him he didn't let it show.

"I'm going with you," he said.

"You don't have to do that…" Raiden started to say, but he got quiet when Vulich fixed his eyes on him.

"Do you think you are the only ones who have business with Revolver Ocelot?"

"So that's it," Raiden said. "Fine. We'll just leave the kid here, I guess. He'll be okay, right Adrian?"

"Nikolai is coming as well," Vulich said. For the second time, he looked up and swept the horizon with his eyes. "He'll be safe with me."

"He's not in any shape for that," Vamp said. "Look at him."

"He'll be fine. He's a soldier."

Kolya did seem to be pulling himself together. His pale eyes had stopped spinning in their sockets; they had slipped into focus on Vulich's face. He raised his hand and made a halting gesture, and Vulich knelt by him at once.

His tongue still thick, his words slurred, Kolya drew him down and whispered to him. Vulich's expression did not change, gave no indication of what Kolya was saying to him. He listened quietly, and then he stood up, smoothing a hand down the front of his uniform as if suddenly self-conscious.

"Don't worry about Nikolai," he said again. "I'll keep him close to me."


	39. Chapter 39

After Novikov left him, Ocelot's thoughts turned at once to Innokenty.

It did not seem that there would be much left for them to say to each other. Novikov had counted on Innokenty being too young to take sides, and he had realized too late that he had underestimated the boy. Innokenty had offered what little help he could, and Ocelot had misheard or miscalculated or simply not listened when he should have. It was too late now to change that, and there was little Ocelot could do to make amends.

Innokenty didn't blame him. It was hopelessly unprofessional, but Ocelot was grateful for that. He had not wanted to be the cause of any premature disillusionment on Innokenty's part. All of that would come in good time. Ocelot had never been anything save a bitter realist, but he was grudgingly impressed whenever he saw innocence and idealism thriving. They were capable of adapting to even the harshest environments.

It would only take a moment, Ocelot thought, to take the elevator down to the basement, to pull Innokenty aside and say some small thing to him. Even if it was only farewell, there wasn't any harm in it. No secrets would be at stake, no lies at risk of coming to light, and maybe that was the very reason he hesitated. Now that there was nothing to lose, he suspected he would be able to think of nothing to say.

But Ocelot knew better than to ignore his intuition. He tried to talk himself out of seeing Innokenty, but the notion persisted. That meant something, even if all the details weren't perfectly clear at the moment.

Vulich and Kolya had disappeared into the fog. The fire at the barracks was starting to burn itself out. There was nothing left to see out here.

Ocelot turned and went inside.

The corridors were deserted. Ocelot passed no one on his way to the basement. This new Groznyj Grad had always been run on a skeleton crew, but it had never felt so abandoned as it did now. Ocelot had a fleeting, illogical notion that he had somehow stepped out of the Groznyj Grad of the present and into the one of the past, but he knew that could not be. The lights overhead were bright and did not flicker; the boiler kept the interior of the base warm at all hours.

This place was Groznyj Grad only in skin and bones. The heart, the guts, the vital interior workings, were all brand new.

In fact, Ocelot had not thought of the place as Groznyj Grad in some time now. Not since he had been up on the mountain, looking down on it from above. Most of the time, his mind framed it as simply 'the base' or even 'the target'. He was glad for that; it was one less distraction he had to worry about. But did not these new lights shine a bit too steadily? Was not the air almost unpleasantly warm?

Something had been lost when the ghosts had dispersed, but Ocelot could not say what it was or whether it would return. He didn't even know if it was important, only that he felt its absence very keenly.

How unpleasant to be alone, he thought. It was not a notion that had ever occurred to him before.

He thought the word, loneliness, but then dismissed it. It meant nothing to him; he could not ground it in reality. Besides, it was only Raikov who was missing. If he were going to be lonely, then it would be because Jack was gone and there could be no other reason. Ocelot would not submit to anything less than that.

But he didn't need Jack to show him how to die, nor Ivan Raikov for that matter. No, no, he could do that all on his own.

In the basement corridor, the two guards were not on duty. Inside, Ocelot did not see any of the white-coated technicians and programmers, though many of the desks had the look of having been hastily abandoned. They had gone above ground. With the Gurlukovich troops out of the way, there was no longer any threat to security. Ocelot could easily imagine Novikov herding everyone outside, like an elementary class on recess. It seemed like the kind of gesture that would strike him as indulgent and magnanimous.

The bank of monitors in the center of the room still glowed with a grimy colorless light, a shade dingier than the light that came from the fluorescents overhead. He could see a few small knots of uniformed figures clustered uneasily on the blacktop outside, but not as many as he had thought there would be.

Ocelot heard a small sound behind him, like a stifled cough. He turned around. Innokenty was watching him from the door of one of the offices. He clutched the frame stiffly in both hands, and his face was white.

"Are you going to faint?" Ocelot asked, uneasy at the prospect.

Innokenty shook his head, and swallowed hard as if fighting back a surge of bile. "Something isn't right."

His voice was little more than a whisper; his lips barely seemed to stir. Ocelot had to move closer, unsure that he had heard correctly.

"She's going away from me," Innokenty said. "I feel her coming up, like the roots of a plant. When she's gone, I don't know what will happen. Now, you have to help..."

"You're not making sense." Ocelot crouched down, taking Innokenty's shoulders in his hands. Innokenty seemed to shrink in his grip. "Tell me what you mean. I let you waste my time once already with riddles and hidden notes, and look where it got us. Tell me…"

Two spots of color appeared on Innokenty's cheeks, almost perfectly round. They hung there a moment, as if suspended in thin air.

"Something is wrong with Matryona," he said. "I don't know what it is, but I can feel her getting ready to move. She's like a big muscle wound up tight, ready to make some fast decisive strike. Only I haven't told her to do anything, and she can't know anything without me. But I think she knows, Shalashaska. I really, really think she knows…"

Ocelot was only half listening. His attention was focused on the blob of red slowly forming in the white of Innokenty's eye. A capillary had burst there, as if before a tremendous surge of blood.

Innokenty did not seem to notice, but he rubbed his eye distractedly with his fist. "She asked me if I didn't want to kill those men. And I said I didn't mind. But she knew I did. I minded a lot…"

"It's okay," Ocelot said. "Don't think about them."

"Do you think I did something wrong?"

"I don't think it matters," Ocelot replied. He hesitated, studying Innokenty's face. It had been so long since he had thought in those terms – right and wrong – but Innokenty was young and still cutting his teeth on the world.

"It was wrong," Ocelot said quietly. "But it wasn't you that did it."

Innokenty was silent a moment, thoughtful, and then he nodded. "But Matryona…"

"It can't do anything on its own. It's just a machine."

"You know that she isn't."

Ocelot felt his insides become small and cold at those words. He didn't know anything. He had seen the creature, and he had heard its heartbeat, but he did not know what he knew. Fear lodged in his heart like a stinger, so sudden and unexpected that at first he did not recognize it. When he stood up, his legs were weak.

"Can she act on her own?" he said. "Without your input?"

"She shouldn't be able to," Innokenty said, but Ocelot didn't like the uncertainty in his voice.

"And if she could? What would she…?" He narrowed his eyes. "Does she want anything? Could she want? Would she know what it is?"

"She wants to protect her primary programming," Innokenty said. But that explanation did not seem to satisfy him, and he rushed on, as if trying to overtake the words that were always a few steps out of his reach. "To keep herself in working order. To evolve her AI matrices. She wants those things indefinitely, to the exclusion of everything else."

"And to do that, she needs you…" Ocelot felt himself on the verge of understanding, but the last piece, the one that would tie it all together, refused to fall into place. It resisted him, like his hand would resist reaching out to touch an open flame.

Ocelot glanced back at the bank of monitors in the center of the room. They had all been on when he had come in, but now three of them showed only black, as if the cameras had suddenly reversed direction and now they stared back at their operator. There was a flash of movement in the lower corner of the bank. Ocelot turned toward it, but too slowly. The screen had dissolved into static and then it, too, went black.

The fluorescent lights flickered. Ocelot tensed, winding up so tight in anticipation that it felt like his feet would leave the floor. There was a distant sound of complaint, like thunder, or old ill-maintained machinery.

Ocelot knew what it was. It had come from some distance away, but he was unlikely to be mistaken.

"Shalashaska…" Innokenty said. His voice had the flat, unadorned quality of cold hard fact.

Ocelot turned toward him. The spots of color had returned to his cheeks, and now his eyes had taken on a bright feverish cast. The spot of blood in his sclera looked as furious as a fist. They seemed to bob in the air a little in front of his face, like so many disconnected lights.

The next explosion was close enough that they felt it even under the earth.


	40. Chapter 40

There was something to be said for the predictability of soldiers. Raiden hadn't noticed it until after they had made some progress up the side of the mountain, but once Vulich and Kolya had joined up with them, they had slipped, without even thinking about it, into single file, they way they had all been taught in basic training. Vamp was up front on point and Vulich brought up the rear to help Kolya along. Like math and music, military disciple was a universal language.

They had lost some time patching the two Gurlukovich soldiers up, and now it was coming up on midday. The sun slanted hard through the trees, and it was oppressively silent. There weren't any animal sounds, or bird calls, or any of that crap. Just the drone of the wind in the trees, so steady it almost didn't seem like a sound at all.

"We're getting close now," Vulich said. It was the first time he had spoken since they had begun this last ascent. "Be careful at the tree line."

Vamp made a little motion with his head to indicate that he had heard. Raiden rolled his eyes. Christ, he was all business all of a sudden. Vamp got up to where trees came to an abrupt and ugly halt, as if the rest of the forest had been hacked off with a blade; he dropped down and went on through the tall grass.

Raiden came up beside him and saw they were on a ridge which formed one side of a shallow basin. Groznyj Grad spread out below them, so gray and sedate that it seemed almost like a part of the landscape.

"Jesus…" Raiden said. "How long do you suppose that's been there?"

"Not long," Vulich said. He had left Kolya back in the shelter of the trees and come up behind them.

"Those guys at Homeland Security would shit kittens if they could see this."

"What Russia does is no longer of any interest to your government," Vulich said. "They have found newer, more profitable wars."

"That's a pretty crushing indictment, coming from a mercenary and all."

"Enough," Vamp snapped. "Jack, stop baiting him. Alexei, come up here. I need you."

Vulich moved up to the edge of the ridge. If he noticed the look Raiden shot at him as he passed he didn't give any. But Raiden kept glaring after him, putting all his weight behind it, as if he could glare Vulich right off the edge of the cliff.

"It's quiet down there," Vamp said. When Vulich didn't answer right away, he went on, "I don't see anyone watching the perimeter. How many men do they have on patrol?"

"Not many now," Vulich replied, his voice was tight, as if saying those words wounded him. "They've got a few private contractors hidden away somewhere, but I don't know the location exactly."

"If that's the case, then the best way to get in may be through the front door. What do you think, Jack?"

"You don't know what's down there," Vulich said solemnly.

"Neither do you," Raiden snapped. "All you know is that they were testing something. It's tough luck you got in the way, but you still don't know anything. No one ever knows a goddamn thing about anything until it's too late."

"I see that you are of a philosophical bent today," Vamp said. His voice was bilious. "So much for keeping things simple, I guess."

"No, we're keeping things simple. I'm ready to go. Let's bust in there with our guns blazing, and see what happens. It can't be worse than waiting around here. It's not like I'm afraid."

Neither Vamp nor Vulich seemed particularly moved by his bravado. From the look they exchanged just then, Raiden gathered that it had come off more like a tantrum.

"Look," Vamp said, motioning down the slope.

Vulich crept up beside him. "Yes…"

They were studying something down by the base. Raiden pretended not to be interested, and when he glanced over he saw that Kolya had rallied somewhat and come out from the shelter of the trees. He was crouched in the grass with his eyes on Raiden and a little sympathetic smile on his face. That kid was so knocked-around and insignificant that he probably sided with the loser of every conflict, just on instinct maybe.

Raiden pushed his expression into something resembling sternness, and then he slipped up on Vamp's other side to look down at the base.

It took him a minute to pinpoint what they were looking at. A small rotary-mounted seek-and-destroy drone glided around the perimeter fence. The machine gun mounted on it swung loosely, giving it the appearance of looseness and ease. It seemed almost to be drifting, like a leaf or a scrap of fancy paper set loose on the breeze.

They watched it without making a sound, until it reached the corner of the fence and, unhurriedly, began to move back in the direction from which it had come.

"There will be worse than that," Vulich said darkly. He was the Oracle that delighted in giving bad news.

"It's just a little sentry," Raiden said. "It's not really that bad."

Vamp turned back and looked at him. Up from a seemingly inexhaustible well of pity and patience came the words, "Jack, I know there is nothing wrong with your instincts. They are much sharper than mine. Please, use them now."

Raiden opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it closed again. He was quiet, knowing that Vamp was right, that something was amiss, and hating his having of that knowledge. Things were never easy, and even when they were, they still weren't easy enough.

There was a sound then, a decorous half-cough. It was so unobtrusive, so polite, that when Raiden turned to see where it had come from he did not reach for his gun. He didn't even think of it.

And by the time he saw Ocelot there, it was too late.

His white hair was windblown and tangled; his boots were caked with mud and slick with melted snow. Everything in between was immaculate. Ocelot held one of his revolvers at the ready. Not pointing it at anything, but reminding them that it was there.

"You ought to take a closer look at the state of things down there." He took a scope from the pocket of his coat, holding it out. "Here."

Vamp reached out and took it. Raiden darted a glance at his face and saw that his expression was impassive, registering not surprise, nor relief, not anger. Ocelot was here, finally, and it was frustrating in its inevitability. Intolerable in the seeming rightness of it.

"We've been looking for you," Raiden said. He felt that someone ought to.

"Oh." It was not a question, and not an exclamation either. The news didn't seem to interest Ocelot much.

While Vamp scanned the compound below, Ocelot scanned the four of them up above. Raiden stood up so he could escape the awful sensation of being under inspection. He looked over to see that Vulich had beaten him to his feet. His face was chalky, but he seemed to be holding himself together all right. His skin wasn't slack, his expression was still riding high on his magnificent cheekbones, like someone had just plastered over a face that was still perfectly good.

He was watching Ocelot intently, perhaps trying to say something to him without words.

Ocelot noticed it too.

"You shouldn't have come back here," he said. "There wasn't any need for you. And to bring that boy…" He glanced at Kolya, who flushed with pleasure at the attention. "Shame on you, Alexei."

"I have reasons," Vulich said. His voice was a rasp.

Ocelot only swept his gaze down to Groznyj Grad, and then he sighed and said, "Only think of how different things might have been."

The prospect didn't seem to hold much interest for Vulich, though.

After a minute, Vamp lowered the scope and motioned to Raiden with a wave of his hand. "Come take a look at this."

Obediently, Raiden went up and took the glasses from him. And when Vamp said, "watch the east corner of that main building," he did, even though he didn't see anything at first.

A gleaming steel leg slid out from behind the wall, and when it touched the blacktop it seemed, for all its bulk, to make no disturbance at all. The ball joint at the ankle pivoted, neat as a dancer, and then the full body of the thing came into view.

It was a Metal Gear. A RAY, but a little modified for the Russian market. The regional differences were minor.

"Well, shit," Raiden said.

"God knows where she got them," Ocelot said. "I counted three on my way up here. One of them took a shot at me too. It went wild, and my luck held out. A flock of birds went overhead just then and drew its fire. They don't discriminate. They'll kill anything that moves. I never saw any RAYs in the hangars down there, but she surely knows the inventory better than I do."

"She?"

"Wait a moment," Ocelot said. "She'll make herself known."

Raiden was skeptical. He looked back, and he was about to raise the scope and give the compound another look, when he realized he didn't need the glasses after all.

The machine rose up like something coming out of the earth and hooked its front mandibles over the roof of one of the storage sheds. It had a jutting head, mean and thrusting like a shark's, and its optical sensors – it's eyes, Raiden wanted to scream, his voice coming up as if out of a cellar, you know goddamn well that those are eyes – were red and pulsing like two ugly little hearts. Its skin was mottled, as if with rust, but the color of it was not rust at all. The patches were dark and brittle-looking in their centers, sickly green around the edges, like a series of bruises.

Raiden realized that Vamp had his hand on the scope and he was pulling at it ineffectually. Raiden's fingers had clenched on the strap and he could not make them let go. Soon, Vamp gave up.

They could see enough. They could see the machine's mandibles tighten on the edge of the roof, and they could even see the way that the sides bulged, almost as if there were muscle underneath. The roof peeled back. A panel of it snapped off, and the machine drew it towards itself. The jaw unhinged, the rows of sharp jagged teeth flowing back on themselves. Back, back, until the head had disappeared and there was only a mouth, gaping and famished.

It crammed the panel into its maw, and it was too big to swallow. The machine wavered there, its throat crammed full of stainless steel, and Raiden felt a laugh coming up. He had to laugh, because if he made any other sound he felt he would not stop making it for a very long time.

Then the mouth came closed again, and the little shark's head reappeared. It had not swallowed the panel. It had simply made it disappear, absorbed it whole into its bulk.

It reached for another strip of the roof, but then it hesitated. A moment later, Raiden saw what it had seen. A small figure appeared at the door of the shed. From this distance, it was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman. The look of horror on its face was indecipherable; its screams were lost to the wind.

The machine moved fast. Its red eyes lit up and it released the roof. It brought its tapered foreleg down on the fleeing human hard enough to crack the pavement, but Raiden heard nothing save the hitch that came into his breathing.

The tapered leg began to melt into the concrete, flattening out at the bottom until it looked like a round bruise-colored pool. Then it folded back on itself, the way a carnivorous plant would close up on its prey.

When the machine reeled back and lifted the leg up again, there was nothing there. Not even a bloodstain.

Raiden thrust the scope into Vamp's hand. He had seen enough.

"It's been like that for close to an hour now," Ocelot was telling them. "You didn't see her when she came down from the mountain, but she was smaller then. She's grown a lot since she started doing that."

"Doing what, exactly?" Vamp said.

Ocelot shrugged. "Eating. It's not a very technical term, I'm afraid, but I am at a loss for a better one. She started on the fence over there, but she didn't seem to care for that. Then she made quick work of the corpses – the biological matter, I should say – and moved on to the vehicles parked in the yard. Now she seems to have developed a taste for the architecture."

"Why?" Raiden heard his voice, but it surprised him. He hadn't known he was going to speak.

"She's converting it somehow. Breaking it down and redistributing the molecules. Like I said, she's a lot bigger now."

"She…" Vamp said the word very quietly, as if he were giving it a lot of thought.

"You don't know the half of it," Ocelot said. "But I've been watching her for a while now. I don't know how big she'll be when she finishes off all the heavy metals down there. I can only imagine. But I don't think she'll stop there."

Raiden rolled his eyes. "You're afraid it's going to leave teethmarks on St. Basil's Cathedral. Good work, Ocelot. You've really outdone yourself this time."

"I had so little to do with this that I am almost ashamed of myself," Ocelot replied. Something must have shifted in Raiden's expression, because Ocelot's lips compressed into a smile. "Don't you trust me, Jack? After all, I was a friend of your fa—"

"Don't even say it."

"Stop it," Vamp said. When Raiden looked at him he saw that he was watching Ocelot with a curious flat expression, as if he had drugged all his murderous impulses into a stupor and now all that remained was chilly mechanical reason. "We don't have to trust you to believe you about this. That machine is behaving erratically. It isn't safe to approach it."

"It's not a machine," Ocelot said. "It was supposed to be the new Metal Gear prototype."

"I don't give a damn what it is." That had come from Vulich. He was standing back a little, with one eye on them and one eye on the boy Kolya. His face was rigid and pale, like a plaster mask that would remain hovering in the air even if the rest of him dropped. "It's already clear what must be done. We ought to do it instead of standing here discussing it."

"You misunderstand me, Lieutenant," Ocelot said. "I'm certainly in no hurry to fight with her."

"But you have a plan," Vulich replied. It was not a question.

"Perhaps," Ocelot conceded. "But it did not occur to me until I saw you all again. It was Kolya, in fact. Kolya was the key…"

While the boy squirmed, delighted, at the sound of his name, Ocelot turned away from the ridge and looked back towards the forest. He seemed to be collecting himself. "What I know is that there is a nuclear reactor in the mountains somewhere, near her hangar. It's unshielded, which is madness until you realize that the radiation has something to do with the machine's growth. It checks it, I have been told. It keeps it from becoming wild and unpredictable. It works as long as the radiation is delivered in small, sustainable quantities. However, if we could deliver a massive dose all at once, a killing dose…"

He turned suddenly to Kolya and began to speak in low, rapid Russian.

"Hey, wait…" Raiden stammered. He turned helplessly to Vulich, who was not so sick that he couldn't muster a contemptuous look for him before he began to translate.

"He is asking Kolya if he remembers the crate he showed him last night. If he remembers the thing that was in it. Now he is asking Kolya if he could get it working if he had to."

Kolya responded to all of these with vigorous head nodding and, "Da, da!" which needed no interpreter.

"Then it's settled," Ocelot said, in English now. "The boy will prepare the warhead. All you have to do is give him an opportunity."

"There's a warhead?" Raiden said unenthusiastically.

"Only a small one," Ocelot assured him. "And accurate enough at this distance. There's very little danger of you being caught in the initial explosion. Perhaps you'd rather test your luck in single combat, though."

Raiden looked again at the not-quite-a-machine down below. It had finished with the roof of the storage shed and it was now working its way down one of the walls. Maybe it was an illusion, or maybe he was just on edge, but it did seem a little bigger now.

"I'll pass," Raiden said.

"Listen," Ocelot said. "Retrieve the warhead and the launcher. Bring them both back here. There's a small bunker down that way. I passed it on the way up here. It should provide a secure place for the boy to work. Someone has to go down there, though."

Raiden had come to hate that word – someone – and the way people like Revolver Ocelot, people accustomed to giving orders, said it. It was the impersonal, guiltless, blameless way to ask a person to risk their life. Raiden didn't think that Ocelot fretted too much over sending men to their deaths, but he was a talker. He always knew the right words.

"I'll do it," Vulich said.

Raiden regarded him suspiciously. He'd been about to volunteer himself. "You're not in any shape to—"

"I know the layout of the base already. I'll be able to get in and out quicker than you."

"And what about those RAYs?"

Vulich shrugged, but Raiden could not tell whether he had intended it to be noncommittal or nonchalant. "You could draw them off for me."

Raiden felt his jaw tighten. His teeth clenched together so hard that his head swam with the sounds of them squeaking and grinding against each other. "Fine. Maybe I will."

"Jack, wait."

Vamp's voice was very soft. He was again looking out over Groznyj Grad. It hadn't seemed like he was listening at all, but he had heard. He turned now, and the wind picked up his hair and blew it in slats across his face. He shook it back, nothing hurried or awkward in the gesture, and he looked at Ocelot.

"I came to kill you. But I can't do it now."

"You wouldn't be the first," Ocelot replied.

Vamp held out the scope with one hand, and when Ocelot took it he said, "There's still time."

"Oh, yes. I suppose there's always time for that."

Vamp nodded, and when he looked around Raiden thought that he saw lines of weariness etched into the corners of his eyes. He reached out and touched Vamp's arm, not knowing what he wanted it to mean but glad when it was not rejected.

Vulich was watching them, his expression set in rigid hopeless knowing.

"Are you fitted with CODEC?" Vamp said.

Vulich shook his head.

Vamp's eyes narrowed, and the lines showed again, gray with disappointment. "It's all right. I trust your judgment."

"That's fair."

Vamp started forward, down the sloping path that worked its way around to one of Groznyj Grad's gates. Raiden hung back a moment, tried to think of something to say, but he knew that all had been settled. Through him and around him crept that old feeling of disconnection, as if things weren't quite real and he could not tell if the shimmer on the horizon was the motion of sunlight through the morning haze, or if it was the edges of reality pixilating briefly as his eyes scanned across it.

He looked at Vulich, and at Kolya who had drawn up next to his arm, and he tried to smile reassuringly. They looked for all the world like a couple of refugees, and it stirred a familiar sympathy in him.

"Good luck," he said, and he started down, running a few steps so that Vamp couldn't get too far ahead.


	41. Chapter 41

Ocelot watched them go, understanding more from the way Raiden rushed to catch up and the way Vamp hung back a step to wait for him than either of them could have guessed. They went down the hill and vanished from his sight.

"They're good boys," Ocelot said to no one in particular. "There was no sense in them fighting like that."

He turned and put the scope in Vulich's hand. "I'm afraid I'm becoming sentimental in my old age. But no matter. There's work to be done. Have you got enough life left in you yet, Lieutenant?"

Vulich set his jaw and said, "Where's Novikov?"

"No idea."

"Guess."

Ocelot only laughed. "Do you know why you were never a good commanding officer, Lieutenant?"

Vulich was stonily silent. But he wanted to know; Ocelot knew he did. "It was because you had to be everywhere, in everything. As if all would fly apart if you took your eyes off it for even a moment. Don't worry about Novikov. He's still alive, I'm sure. He's just hiding, like a puppy who's messed the carpet."

"You…" Vulich said. "Shalashaska."

He was angry, Ocelot thought, but it was not the anger he was used to. It was not the righteous fury of the proletariat. The rage that made him one among many, that comforted even as it consumed. This anger was personal, and so new to him that Vulich had no way to conceal it or divert it or make it useful to him.

Ocelot looked away, embarrassed that he had intruded upon such an intimate moment. He was weary, and his hands ached. Though the pain was continual now; the cold had made it small and intensely centered, like a cinder burning in each of his joints.

No matter; he could still shoot. His aim was still true.

"They told me about Olga," Vulich managed at last. He was shaking; just the mention of her name was enough to get him going. "They told me you didn't kill her."

"Do you believe that?" Ocelot said.

"If you say it is so, then I will."

Ocelot smiled bitterly. "You've got a lot on your mind, Lieutenant. Better focus on the task at hand. And your subordinate, of course. I think he could use a little support."

"I'm fine," Kolya said. "It hurts, but I can stand on it."

"So I see," Ocelot said. "The bullet went right through. It was a lucky shot, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Kolya said. He agreed far too readily, without a hint of irony.

"Take good care of it."

Ocelot looked down the slope. He couldn't see Solidus' boys anymore, but they'd be at the perimeter any moment now. He wanted to be on his way before the shooting started.

When he turned to head down the road, Vulich snapped after him, "Where are you going?"

"Don't worry about me," Ocelot replied, giving them a little wave as he dropped out of sight. He was glad to be rid of them at last. He worked much better alone.

About halfway down the path, he heard gunfire, but it came from far away and Ocelot knew that it was not intended for him. He existed in a world beyond the reach of men or guns, and nothing could touch him here. He would be safe as long as he never tried to go back. For, not unlike the deserters of the second Great War, almost everyone was killed in the crossing. The first time he had braved it, he hadn't known any better; and the second time he had, it had seemed like it was worth the risk.

The first time had been Raikov, and Raikov had come off worse than he had.

He could not un-remember it: The night where they had laid down in darkness and Raikov's chest had been spotted with patches of black and blue so that even the dim light couldn't hide them.

Then Raikov had said, Where are you going? before Ocelot even realized that he had recoiled.

And he had said, They're from Volgin. He knows, but he doesn't know who. And he thinks he can frighten you like this, Adamska. He thinks you will be frightened.

Raikov shaking his head fiercely, so that his blond hair whipped around his face; shaking as if to drive out an evil thought. He said, Volgin's always scared. He remembers Siberia. He remembers the Lubyanka. He wakes up at night and he sweats and cries. The tears just ooze out, like he's leaking nightmares. In the night, they look black.

Ocelot kissed him hard, like he hated him. Who are you, Ivan? Vanya. Who are you really?

But Raikov only said, Not yet, not yet, not yet.

He had kept his secrets up until the very end, though. Even death could not make him talk. He was gone now, Ocelot thought, and for the first time it seemed declarative and final. Ocelot had a sudden desire, very keen, almost painful, to tell Raikov that he had been brave. He had been one of the bravest men Ocelot had ever known. He didn't know if Raikov would like that, if he would even care. For all Ocelot knew, the word would have meant nothing to him.

They had never really known each other at all.

Ocelot came under the shelter of Groznyj Grad's main building. He paused in the shadow of the doorway and listened. The sounds of battle still came from the east end of the compound; Solidus' boys were scrapping like fighting dogs. From the south, there was no noise at all, and so he supposed that Vulich and Kolya were having some luck with the missile launcher.

How angry they all were at him, Ocelot thought ruefully. How much trouble it was when your sins caught up with you. He'd worry about them later, after he'd finished his business here. One thing at a time; take it slow and methodical. Just like murder.

As Ocelot went inside, out of the wind, he felt a little shiver go through him, as if he had passed through a pocket of cold air. His right arm gave a hitch, but then it was still and did not complain further. Ocelot spared a glance back over his shoulder but, as he had suspected, he did not turn to salt. There was nothing there to see.

He had lost track of Novikov after the demonstration of Matryona that morning. It had been almost six hours since then; plenty of time for Novikov to have taken one of the trucks out of the garage and left his failed experiment behind. He was shameless enough, Ocelot thought, but he didn't think that Novikov would be frightened away so easily. It was even more improbable that he would have been killed. He was still here somewhere, and Ocelot knew he had to find him. Maybe they were just going to talk. Maybe it would be enough to have his questions answered.

Ocelot checked the underground lab first. He had left Innokenty alone there when Matryona had commenced her attack. At the time, it had seemed like the safest place for the boy, but it occurred to him now that Novikov probably hadn't given Innokenty the necessary security clearance to leave the basement on his own. Ocelot felt a shudder move along his spine. Just as well, then, that he was still alive.

As he took the elevator down, he heard the sounds of battle grow fainter. They quickly faded away entirely, and Ocelot was plunged into utter silence. The elevator made no noise as it descended, and his thoughts made no noise as they moved in his head, and for the first time Ocelot realized how quiet Groznyj Grad could really be.

He'd have to do something with Innokenty, he thought. He couldn't leave him in the basement to be forgotten. He'd have to figure something out.

When the elevator door slid open, Ocelot was still for a moment before he stepped off. He touched the revolver at his hip. He did not draw, though he could feel that he might have good reason to. Novikov was here; Ocelot knew it as surely as he would have known the presence of another person in a dark room.

Resolutely, he went on. Novikov was waiting for him. He had pulled one of the office chairs around in front of the bank of monitors as if he were watching them, but the monitors were all blank by now. When Ocelot entered, he swiveled around and looked up. There were deep shadows carved into the hollows of his face, giving him the look of a very old man or of a corpse.

Ocelot felt nothing for him but pity.

"It's difficult," Novikov said, making a vague motion at the dead screens. "It's very difficult. But I do not blame myself. I couldn't have known that this would happen. It was so very nearly a success, though, and even you cannot deny me that."

"Next time, we'll all know better," Ocelot replied.

"I've heard that one before." Novikov smiled humorlessly. "Have you seen Lieutenant Vulich lately?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. He asked about you."

"Good," Novikov replied. "Good."

"In fact, he'll be taking care of Matryona any time now. You'll be pleased to know that he really rose to the occasion."

Novikov sighed, lifting himself out of his chair. He moved slowly, carrying himself with great care, as if he had old wounds that he feared reopening. "I can't say I'm pleased. It's hard being a man of science. If only you knew how wide my romantic streak really is. Shalashaska… Ocelot… My word, you have a lot of ridiculous names! Tell me your true one. I want to call you by it."

"It doesn't get much use these days."

"If anyone deserves to know it, then certainly I do."

"Why you?"

Novikov folded his arms. "You know why."

He was moving again, leaning on the edge of the desk as if it pained him to walk. And Ocelot ran those three words over and over in his mind, like a bit of code he was trying to decipher. But Novikov was right: he did know, and he had for some time now.

"You're my son," Ocelot said.

"On the genetic level," Novikov replied. "You see, Big Boss was not the only one worthy of immortality. It's disappointing. I, too, had thought he was one of a kind."

"He wasn't," Ocelot said. "How many others?"

"How many others were cloned? Or how many other copies of you are there?"

"Either one. Both."

"I don't know," Novikov said briskly. "And I don't know. To be honest, I don't give a damn. I'll never meet them; I don't even think I was supposed to meet you. It's bad for the psyche, I think. Too damned Freudian…"

Laboriously, he rounded the corner of the desk and disappeared behind the bank of monitors. A moment too late, Ocelot realized that it had been his intention all along. His hand dived for his gun, but Novikov was already out of sight. Ocelot could hear him moving back there, fast and almost silent, and he scanned the black blinded eyes of the screens for the slip that would give him away.

It came a moment later; the barrel of a gun emerged from the gap between two monitors, and Ocelot was just bringing his revolver to bear when the shot went off. His body swayed to the right, and the bullet grazed his shoulder, piercing through his coat, kissing his skin. Ocelot fired three times before he realized he had been hit, and he heard Novikov swearing efficiently in Russian.

"Careful," he said. "Don't just fire that thing blindly. Kesha is back here."

"What?"

Novikov emerged from the other side of the monitors. He pushed Innokenty out in front of him, gripping his small shoulder in one hand and pressing a gun to the top of his blond head with the other. "We'll have to kill him, of course," Novikov said. "The experiment was a failure, and he's got a head full of government secrets. It must be done for security reasons, but I didn't think you would want to be the one…"

Ocelot did not reply. He was looking at Innokenty, trying to catch his eye so that he might signal with a wink or a twitch of his eyebrow, what their next move would be. Innokenty took no notice of him, though. He seemed not even to have heard anything Novikov had said. Ocelot willed him to look up, and he must have been concentrating on it hard, because his right hand gave a little twitch around the hilt of his gun.

Novikov's hand moved in a blur. He only took the gun off Innokenty for a split second, but it was long enough to get off two shots. The first struck the floor just aside of Ocelot's boot, and he retreated in time to avoid the second, which whistled at heart-height through the place where he had stood until a moment ago.

"That was a warning," Novikov said. "I don't want to do it until I know your name. It matters to me that I know, and that you tell me."

Ocelot touched his coat below the epaulet. His fingers came away damp with blood. It didn't hurt badly, but it seemed absurd that Novikov had been able to leave a mark on him. It was his left arm, Ocelot thought with some regret. He couldn't even have bothered to leave that one alone.

"Don't ignore me!" Novikov spat. He raised his gun again, but this time Ocelot was ready. He saw the barrel come up as if in slow motion, and then he was moving too, bringing his revolver around so that it was parallel to Novikov's chest.

A cramp seized his right arm. He saw it before he felt it, and even before the pain came he knew that the shot had gone wild.

Novikov folded down on himself as the bullet passed over his head. He jerked Innokenty back behind the bank of monitors, so hard that the boy's feet left the ground and Innokenty cried out in pain: the first sound he had made.

Once they was safely under cover, Novikov uttered a derisive laugh. "You missed me! You missed…" Sing-song, as if it were a schoolyard chant.

Ocelot retreated back behind one of the desks; his joints creaked wearily when he crouched down. His right arm was jerking frantically now, and the flesh seemed to writhe on the bone. "Liquid…" he gasped. "Not now. Not now."

"Who are you talking to?" Novikov demanded, but his voice was drowned out by the hideous laughter that clattered in Ocelot's head. It bubbled up, up, out of the unfathomed primitive depths of his mind; the places only Liquid would dare to conceal himself.

He knew now that Liquid had never really left him. He had only gone into hiding; watching, waiting for the moment when Ocelot was distracted, weary, unable to fight him. Ocelot tried to rally his mental defenses, but Liquid was too fast to catch, too unwieldy to hold. Ocelot felt himself poised on the edge of that vast oblivion that existed within him, ready to succumb.

It was then that the lights went out.

Liquid uttered one last startled syllable of laughter: "Hah!" and then all was silent. Ocelot caught his breath and held it. There was a chill in the air, and his cheeks seemed to burn from it. They were damp, he realized. A few dry, comfortless tears had leaked out of his eyes, and they froze like stilettos on his face.

Raikov's voice crackled in the air around him, and Ocelot felt something shift inside him. Snapping into place like a cylinder locking into a gun.

"Adamska, you're tired."

Ocelot had the sensation of being enveloped in cold, like breaking through the crust on a frozen pond and sinking into the embrace of the water below.

"You've been tired for years. Admit it."

He shuddered. "Yes, Vanya…"

Liquid's voice came from somewhere far away, somewhere very deep underground. "Don't you dare! You can't take this from me. I deserve this. It's not fair!"

"Don't you want to rest, Adamska?" Raikov murmured. When Ocelot hesitated, he continued, "Don't you trust me?"

"I do," Ocelot said. It was horrible to contemplate.

"Then let me take care of you now."

Ocelot felt an unfamiliar darkness moving over him. Neither death, nor sleep. Just cool, peaceful non-existence. Novikov slid away from him, and so did Innokenty. Only Liquid stayed with him.

Together, they went down.


	42. Chapter 42

His KGB handlers debriefed him on the flight back to Moscow, and by the time they landed Ocelot's security clearance had been restored.

He knew that he had impressed them. They had bred him for success, and he had exceeded even their expectations. Ocelot knew that it had bought him some goodwill, and some freedom, and he reminded himself not to squander either. He was still in deep, deeper than anyone knew.

Or could it be that there was another?

The notion soured in his mind, and Ocelot dismissed it at once. For all his murmurs and insinuations that he had been part of something larger, Raikov was a KGB man through and through: Crude, but effective; exceptional, but never irreplaceable

He'd done his job well. You couldn't fault him for his conduct. No, you couldn't fault him for much of anything.

Ocelot realized that he had lost track of Raikov sometime after the American agent had infiltrated the base. He'd been alive, though, last Ocelot had heard. If he still was, then he'd find a way to land on his feet. Knowing that should have been enough for him, but the doubt remained, troubling him like a splinter in his conscience.

Comrade Pravda was waiting at the airstrip when they touched down, and she looked Ocelot over with hard eyes and made no move to touch him. The sleeve of her fur coat was neatly rolled up and pinned over the stump that ended her left arm just below the elbow. The long purple scar on her cheek twitched and jumped with the clench of muscles in her jaw. It seemed to be trying to form the smile that she would not permit her lips.

"I didn't think you'd make the trip all the way out here," Ocelot said.

Pravda darted her eyes up to his face. She was a small woman, and she never wore heels. She didn't need them to impress her presence on people.

"Volgin is dead," she said.

It wasn't a question, and it needed no reply. Ocelot was silent.

"They tell me the Legacy codes were lost."

"I had to do it."

"Yes. Better you destroy them then they fall into capitalist hands."

Again, she looked at him expectantly, as if she were waiting for something. Ocelot said nothing.

"Get some sleep, Adamska."

He knew that this was the highest praise she would ever give him: he had done well, and he had earned his rest. It embarrassed him a little.

"I slept on the plane."

"Well?"

"Like I'd just laid a mighty burden down."

Pravda looked at him, scrutinizing his face as if she had never seen it before. "Where do you want to go?"

"What did you do with Volgin's surviving men?"

"They are being dealt with."

"Where?"

The scar on Pravda's cheek gave a sudden and improbable leap, like a cartoon line sketched onto the grim Socialist realism of her face. "There's someone that interests you, Adamska?"

He considered mentioning Raikov's name, just to see how Pravda would react, but his intuition cautioned him against it. He realized with a start that he had never known exactly what Raikov's mission at Groznyj Grad had been, and he was ashamed at his failure to explore all the possibilities. Yes, he'd grown complacent in the end. Perhaps that, too, had been part of the plan. Maybe Raikov had been a failsafe measure, a means to discover whether Ocelot could still be controlled.

Blood rushed to Ocelot's cheeks. He felt exposed; reduced to a series of mistakes, as if he had become nothing more than the sum of his weaknesses. But when he tried to recall the details of Raikov's face, tried to pull it up to hang in the air before him - a convenient target for his anger - Ocelot realized he could not remember it exactly.

Then he felt something else, a burning in his throat of a different kind. He was afraid.

"I have information that their interrogators will want," Ocelot said. His jaw felt tight, but his voice sounded all right to him. He wondered what Pravda heard, though. Gathering intelligence had always been her specialty.

"There will be time for that. There's no rush."

"Sometimes things move quickly…"

Pravda frowned. The scar on her cheek dipped with the change of expression, and the corner disappeared into the crease next to her mouth. "You're over tired, Adamska. Let me drive you into the city. You've done your part admirably; now it's time to let us handle the rest."

She turned away before he had a chance to answer. Her unheeled shoes clattered on the pavement, and the sound was sloppy and formless to Ocelot's ears. He had become accustomed to military precision.

Her car was waiting at the end of the landing strip, and Pravda opened the back door and let Ocelot slide across the seat. She offered him brandy, and he took a glass against his better judgment. He felt it the moment it hit his stomach, and before they had even left the lights of the airfield behind, Ocelot's head had fallen against the window and he was fast asleep.

***

Pravda set him up with an apartment in the city, and for three days Ocelot didn't go out. He kept the lights low and let the hours pass him. He had spent almost a whole year as another person, a stranger. It took time to come back from that, and there were side effects he had not anticipated.

In those formless days, he found his thoughts often drifted to Raikov. It disturbed him deeply, because he could not say whether the preoccupation was Major Ocelot's, Shalashaska's, or Adamska's.

He was afraid of not knowing the truth. He dreaded loose ends, unresolved business; and so he got up and dressed in civilian clothes and he took the streetcar to Lubyanka Square, where the KGB prison crouched behind a black wall and a crown of barbed wire.

Ocelot showed his papers to the guards at the gate, and as they conferred leisurely over them, Ocelot felt a stab of apprehension. He had the clearance to come and go as he wished, but no particular reason to be here today. He searched for a suitable excuse – a lie – and to his horror he came up lacking. Then the guard handed back his papers and waved him on without questioning him. And Ocelot stepped inside as if each step carried him further and further off a precipice and out onto thin air.

There was only one staircase that went down to the subterranean floors. He could hear Comrade Pravda's voice, as much a part of the place as the stale air and the chemical smell. "Do you know what the tallest building in Moscow is, Adamska?" she said. She was straining to contain her laughter. "The Lubyanka. You can see Siberia from the basement."

Ocelot shuddered, leaving the ghostly voice behind in the stairwell. The basement was lit by florescent bulbs that made skin look grayish and diseased. It was not the decaying dungeon that the newspapers said it was, but rather a single hallway of unpainted brick: clean, bright, featureless, and efficient.

He began to look in on the cells, sliding open the little window in each door, taking the room at a glance, and then shutting them again before anyone inside could get a good look at him. Most of the cells were at capacity, and each one that he passed without seeing Raikov made Ocelot's pulse leap at his temples.

He wasn't here, Ocelot told himself. The KGB had scooped him up and. Hell, they'd probably given him a medal by now. They'd set him up with a furnished apartment, and Raikov was there now. He would never have set foot in a place like this. He didn't belong here.

But still, Ocelot went down the line, looking in on each cell, willing himself not to recognize any faces, not even to keep count of the prisoners within. Each room shrouded in the military green of the GRU uniform, like a fog that did not lift or stir. Ocelot's heart pounded in his chest. His head throbbed. He had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched, or of watching something he desperately did not want to see.

He thought of the American – Snake – and of how he had not complained or faltered as he let him leave, and it made him feel a little better.

Ocelot was almost at the end of the hall now. He didn't know how he had come so far. His palms were wet with sweat. When he reached up to open the window of the next cell, the handle slipped out of his grip. He wiped his hands on his pants and tried again, jerking the window so that it rattled on its track.

He saw it first: the wintery color of Raikov's hair, a slash of light against the dull stone walls. Unlike the other cells Ocelot had passed, this one was nearly empty. Raikov sat alone on one of the lower bunks, his head down, hair falling over his face. His uniform was wrinkled but intact, though he had removed his officer's cap and placed it carefully on the board beside him.

Ocelot did not move. He opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn't think of a single thing to say.

Eventually, Raikov raised his head. He gave it a little shake, as if he were troubled by a buzzing insect or a slight ringing in his ears, then he turned toward the door.

His expression quivered. For a moment, it seemed that he would smile, then that he had not quite been able to manage it. "Adamska?" he murmured.

"Vanya." Ocelot said. "What happened?"

Raikov stood up. Underneath the harsh light, his skin took on a faint white glow, but the bruises on his face were matte and black, without contour or gradient, like pieces chipped crudely off the whole. He limped when he walked, and when he reached the door he leaned heavily against it, as if exhausted.

"Adamska, I didn't want you to see me like this" He slipped his fingers through the slit in the door, pushing them as far as they would go. Ocelot seized Raikov's hand in his own; his skin felt cold and dry, like the skin of a corpse buried in peat.

"What's going on?" Ocelot asked. "You said you could handle everything. I thought you had everything under control."

"I did," Raikov replied. "And I do."

"But this place…" Ocelot forced himself to be angry. He felt he ought to have been angry. "You were Volgin's lieutenant. You know what they'll do to you."

"Yes," Raikov said. "But people survive that. People survive all kinds of things. Even Volgin came back from it, and look at him…"

He laughed, and there was no bitterness in it. It was the same laugh that Ocelot had sometimes used to find him in the dark. The laugh that would be choked into silence when Ocelot pulled him close…

"They'll kill you," Ocelot said. "And you're too good an agent to die."

"Did you know there was an American at Groznyj Grad, Adamska? Not the Snake, but another. One who was deep, deep inside. Trusted by almost everyone. That's what they tell me. And they tell me that if I just give them his name, then they'll let me go."

"Vanya…" Ocelot couldn't see anything of Raikov except for his eyes. Steady, without guile or secrets. How they lied. "I'm not going to let you do this. Not for me."

"Then stop me." Ocelot felt Raikov's cold hand tighten on his own. He pulled it forward, through the slit in the door, and bent so he could rub his cheek against it. "I know you won't. And if you did, then you wouldn't be my Adamska anymore."

Ocelot drew his hand away. The backs of his fingers were slick with moisture, but when Raikov raised his eyes again, they were dry.

"For ten years now, I've been good. I've gotten down on my knees. Siberia won't be so bad. It's like a vacation from all that. And besides, I have you. I had you. I'll take that with me, and it won't be cold."

"Raikov, you asshole. How can you act so casual?"

"Because I love you." Raikov said. "Even if you don't love me back. Even if you can't understand this terrible hold you have on me."

"But—"

"Don't argue with me, Adamska," Raikov said sharply. "My mind is made up, and I am very stubborn."

Ocelot was embarrassed into silence. On the other side of the slit, Raikov swayed a little, raising himself on his toes so Ocelot could see the bloodless bow of his mouth.

He knew that Raikov wanted to kiss him, but he held back. The door was too thick; they wouldn't be able to touch. He would only feel Raikov's breath stirring against his lips, and Ocelot dreaded that it would be icy against his skin, that it would smell faintly of the grave.

After a moment, Raikov lowered himself again. Ocelot could not read anything in his eyes.

"There's nothing you can do for me," Raikov said. "Except leave now."

Ocelot was mute, powerless. His throat moved in great gulps as if he could start the flow of words by momentum alone.

"I won't forget this, Vanya," he said at last.

It sounded like a threat. Perhaps he had meant it as one.

The window slid closed between them again, and Ocelot took his hand away from the handle. He had to uncurl each finger with conscious deliberation. The corridor was silent, no whispers or sobs creeping from behind the thick doors. But Ocelot thought he could hear voices all the same. They were very soft, and they seemed to speak from out of the very air.


	43. Chapter 43

And then, he woke up.

Ocelot came to slowly, lingering for a long time in the intense blackness that existed on the other side of consciousness.

Raikov was nearby. Ocelot couldn't hear his voice, but he felt him there, a small intense presence, like a cold candle.

 _It was you_ , Ocelot tried to say, but he had no voice. _You were the other American agent. They sent you to look out for me_.

Raikov didn't answer. Ocelot could not even be sure he had heard.

 _Why_? he tried to say. _Why for me? For anyone_?

Then he opened his eyes, and Raikov's small flame was snuffed out. Ocelot knew that he was gone for good, and that Liquid was gone too. The fire had consumed them both, burned them beyond even ashes.

The air smelled vaguely of black powder, the aftermath of gunfire. The revolver Ocelot held in his left hand still trailed blue smoke, but he could not remember pulling the trigger. The one he held in his right hand was cold, and the cylinder was full, but he felt for the first time – the first time in years – that he held both in perfect balance, that he did not have to watch the right and make the left compensate for the loss.

Somewhere, someone was crying. It took Ocelot a long time to realize that it came from behind the bank of dead monitors, and that the sobs were low and soft, like a woman's or a small child's.

Ocelot holstered the revolver in his left hand, and went forward with the one at the right at the ready. His spurs clicked with each step, and as he drew nearer the sobs abruptly choked into silence. Ocelot went around the corner, and Innokenty looked up at him in helpless fear. He looked small kneeling there, beside Novikov's corpse, with a pool of blood spreading around them, almost black under the fluorescent lights, like a fissure opening in the earth.

Innokenty's chest hitched as if breathing was hard for him. The blue veins in his throat leapt and throbbed with his racing pulse. Ocelot searched his expression for the knowledge that had always been there, even when Innokenty was at his worst, and he found it lacking now. For whatever reason, that was enough to satisfy him.

Ocelot held out his hand, and Innokenty reached up and took it. Ocelot gripped him hard, and felt the smallness of his bones. Innokenty flinched, but did not cry out. He looked up at Ocelot, and his blue eyes swam with tears. His lower lip trembled.

"Are you all right?" Ocelot said quietly.

"Are you?"

It was the last thing he had expected, and Ocelot felt himself relax. He even laughed a little. It felt good. "I don't know. What happened?"

"You killed Dr. Novikov," Innokenty whispered gravely.

"I'm sure it's what he wanted," Ocelot said. "Or at least close enough for government work. You're not hurt are you?"

"No," Innokenty said. Then he frowned and touched his temple beneath his shaggy blond hair. He stroked the surgical scar there thoughtfully. "But I don't feel…"

"What?"

"Matryona," Innokenty said. "She's gone."

His expression collapsed, falling in on itself as if whatever held it had finally given way. He began to sob again.

"Gone… dead gone… dead…"

He was up against Ocelot's legs then, clutching at his coat with small fists, burying his face in it. Ocelot recoiled with embarrassment, but then he reached down, petted Innokenty's hair with his gloved hand, and lifted the boy into his arms.

"If she's gone, there's no reason for you to stay."

He carried Innokenty to the elevator: a small but awkward burden. Ocelot had never had any experience with kids, never really thought much on the matter. He seemed to be doing all right, he thought; instincts had kicked in just in time to save him again. All the same, he was relieved when Innokenty squirmed to be set down.

They went up to the surface. Innokenty followed him, a quiet shadow, though he jerked his head violently, trying to see everything at once. Ocelot didn't know how long he had been down there in the basement, but he didn't seem to remember anything of the world above ground. When they stepped outside into the sun, Innokenty reeled back, shielding his eyes. He reached out blindly, found the hem of Ocelot's coat, and clung fast to it while he waited for his eyes to adjust.

"Stop that," Ocelot said. It was the soft, cajoling voice he usually reserved for prisoners on the verge of giving up their secrets. "I won't leave you behind."

Innokenty looked up at him. His eyes were streaming and red, his skin so fair that the sun seemed to be burn it before Ocelot's eyes.

"Come on," Ocelot said. "Let's go."

Innokenty did not relinquish his hold on Ocelot's coat, but he kept pace with him. Ocelot hardly felt the weight of him; he was no impediment.

It was late afternoon and the sun was low. It was quiet now, except for the wind. All the exotic sounds of battle, the gunfire and shouts and explosions, had ceased but the natural noises of the fortress and the mountains around it had not returned it. Even the wind had quieted much with the coming of evening.

Ocelot wondered if there was anyone left alive. He wondered if he himself was.

He did not know what had happened in the laboratory under the earth, and knew that he would never really know.

Liquid had been cast out. Ocelot was certain of it this time. There was no psychic trickery, no neural implants, no drugs to drive him deep, deep into the subconscious. In every part of his body, Ocelot felt the absence of him. He was weary, weak-limbed, and the pain in his hands was very keen. Ocelot had not felt it at all when Novikov had been shooting at him, but it had returned now and he could not ignore it.

He longed for Liquid's young, fierce blood to refresh him, but he had only his own familiar old strength to rely on.

It would have to be enough.

Whatever had happened to Liquid, he had taken Raikov with him. Or had it been the other way around? For Ocelot felt Raikov's absence as clearly as he felt Liquid's, and he knew that he had been wrong to think that Raikov had abandoned him before. He had been there, always there. He had been there for so long that Ocelot had forgotten what it was like without him.

He felt it now: the flatness in the air, the dreary silence of a disconnected circuit. Had they gone on, then, to whatever awaited them? Hell, or Valhalla? Or had they merely burnt out, like bulbs, the magnetic charge that held their electrons suddenly bursting outward, dispersing them into the air. Maybe in the moments right after it had happened, Ocelot had absorbed them into him as oxygen, carbon, water.

Maybe they were all one another, at last.

Once they had left the main building behind, then it was easy to see where the worst of the fighting had taken place. One of the storage sheds had been reduced to a heap of rubble, and a plume of oily black smoke billowed upward.

"I want to check something," Ocelot said to Innokenty. "Don't worry. It's perfectly safe."

Nothing moved in the ruins. The crippled and charred corpse of a RAY lay half-buried under the collapsed building. Ocelot came around the bulk of its body. Vamp and Raiden sat amidst the debris on the other side. Their backs were against the great metal side, their shoulders touching, heads bent low together.

Raiden noticed him first, and he straightened, shifting subtly away from Vamp. "Where did you go?"

"I had some business to take care of."

Raiden seemed about to reply when he noticed Innokenty peeking out from behind Ocelot's coat. He got quiet then, and looked away as if he had seen something he shouldn't have.

"Are you two all right?" Ocelot asked politely.

Raiden shrugged, and made a vague sweeping gesture. They were both bruised and disheveled. There was the smell of blood about them. But they were alive, and they seemed likely to stay that way.

"What happened?"

Again, Raiden just shrugged. It was a long time before he even tried to answer. "We were fighting down here. We knew those Gurlukovich guys were on the move because a huge wave of those drones took off towards the mountain. I thought they might run into some trouble. Maybe they did, but they got the shot off. Those assholes could have killed us…"

Raiden paled, as if realizing it for the first time. "They would have, if that thing – that Metal Gear…"

He trailed off then, and even looked to Vamp for help. But Vamp was not looking at him.

"It ate it," Raiden said at last. "It's sounds stupid and awful, but that's exactly what it did. We saw the shell coming down, and I guess the Metal Gear saw it too, because it kind of came around and reared up on those legs… treads… whatever it has in back. And then the shell caught it right in the chest."

He glanced at Vamp again, and then settled back against his shoulder. "I thought I was dead. We thought… But the shell didn't explode. It just hit the Metal Gear and then all of a sudden it wasn't there. It went into it somehow. There was a second where we thought it was a dud, but it was just a second. Then…"

"What?" Ocelot said. He felt harried and impatient; he had no time for melodrama.

"These things started happening to it," Raiden spat. "These humps appeared on it, like tumors. And the metal exoskeleton peeled back. And…" He hesitated again, and looked up at Ocelot as if daring him to disbelieve. "And underneath, it had bones. That's really what they were."

Raiden swallowed hard. He pushed back his hair, and he could not hide the trembling of his hand.

"It went down after that. Like it was getting smaller. Like it was disintegrating, or decaying. I don't know. Whatever's left of it is over there. We haven't gone to check it out. Haven't checked on the Gurlukovichs either. They got the shot off, like I said. But there were a lot of drones…"

"I'll go find them," Ocelot said. "I still have something I need done."

He turned to go, but, as he had expected, he did not make it far.

"Ocelot!" Vamp was on his feet, a knife clenched in his hand. At his feet, Raiden lay in an awkward sprawl, as if he had rested all his weight against Vamp's shoulder, and it had abruptly been withdrawn.

Ocelot met his eyes calmly. He did not reach for his gun, but he did pat Innokenty's hair lightly, asking him to be patient a moment longer. "Well, Adrian? Son of Solidus. It's revenge you want. Let's get it over with."

"I want you to know why," Vamp said. "I want you to know everything. Before I…"

"I already know. I killed Helena Jackson. You loved her, in your way. As much as you can love anything beyond yourself, your vanities. She loved you in return, because she was as broken as you. This was important, Adrian. Being loved… that's important to you. Is there anything more?"

"You didn't know anything about her," Vamp snapped.

Ocelot sighed. "No, I did not. Who can know anything about another person, except for one very invested in knowing? You can study them for years, lose half your life to them, and still only know a small fraction of all there is in one single human heart. Did you know her, Adrian?"

"Yes," Vamp said. But there was a moment's hesitation, as if he wasn't so sure.

“Then hold onto her, no matter what.”


	44. Chapter 44

Ocelot reached down and once more took Innokenty's hand. The boy looked up at him. Though his eyes were dry now, his lower lashes caked with frost, Ocelot thought that there might be more tears in the near future, and he dreaded the moment they would come.

Innokenty gave his hand a squeeze, and Ocelot led him away without a word. He was glad to go. He was relieved that Vamp did not try to stop him again. He knew that he had said something right, but he didn't know what. He wasn't even sure any more what he had told him, or why, or if he had hoped to accomplish anything by it.

He knew that he was finally slowing down, that he no longer kept proper time. That he would, very soon now, stop entirely.

Innokenty did not need to be told any of this. He followed Ocelot to the edge of the compound, and they went through a gash where the electric fence had once stood and they ascended the footpath to the ridge that overlooked Groznyj Grad.

The boy said nothing, just dug his small white fingers into Ocelot's sleeve, and he held fast as though each stiff gust of wind from the peaks might tear him away. Ocelot could feel his left arm stiffening. The bullet wound below his shoulder glistened like a penny, and the blood ran just fast enough into his glove that it didn't have a chance to turn cold.

It was a hundred yards from the summit that they began to find pieces of Matryona's drones. Ocelot nudged one off the path with his foot, and it plummeted spectacularly. Wheeling and glinting, it seemed to fall forever, until eventually it was lost from his sight.

He was surprised to feel a tiny pressure against his side. Innokenty had buried his face against his coat.

"Come," Ocelot said.

Innokenty was weeping now.

They went up to where the ridge leveled out. A small wooden bunker sat back in the shade of the trees; the lock was broken and the door hung slightly ajar. It was very silent. The tripod that had held the Davey Crocket had toppled on its side near the edge of the cliff, and the launcher itself had rolled to rest against one of the boulders that lined the little flat place. It was blackened, and the barrel was shredded and bent.

It would not be fired again.

Ocelot thought about telling Innokenty to wait outside. He knew the boy would obey. But it seemed to him crueler to leave him alone then to let him see what waited inside.

No, he thought. Innokenty should see what he had done. One day, perhaps, he would be proud.

Ocelot bent his head beneath the low doorframe, and went inside.

It smelled of copper. The unmistakable bloody smell that most people never came to link always and unfailingly with death.

No, not death. Not exactly. Only the moment before.

Vulich sat propped against the wall, his legs trailing out in front of him, his head thrown back. One hand was clamped against his belly, and from between his fingers blood spilled in mouthfuls. It had soaked his lap, his thighs, the earth and the air.

Kolya was beside him. He had torn the sleeve from his ragged uniform and clamped it over the gash, pressing so hard that his knuckles had gone to white.

He breathed no more easily than Vulich did, and Vulich was certainly breathing his last.

Ocelot cleared his throat softly.

Kolya cried out thinly, and jerked away. The hole in Vulich's gut spat black blood, but he didn't flinch. He only rolled his head forward slowly and his eyes fixed on Ocelot, and Ocelot knew that there was still some life left in him. Enough to comprehend exactly what was happening.

"Shalashaska?" Kolya said shrilly. There was hope in his voice, enough to make Ocelot's stomach tighten with disgust.

The boy came towards him, crawling along the stone floor. Not supplicating, just too weak to stand.

"Thank god you're here, Shalashaska." He grabbed Ocelot's coat, used it to pull himself to his knees. Innokenty gasped, and stumbled away a step.

"Thank god…" Kolya whispered again.

Ocelot grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet. His hands gave him pain in return. He felt he had reached the point where he had only a finite amount of time left. A certain number of hours, a certain number of days. No longer was his end simply "near" or "soon enough".

Robbed of that uncertainty, Ocelot felt very naked and very alone.

Kolya whimpered a little, but found his voice. "I… I was just putting pressure on… on…"

"On the wound," Ocelot said. "Good work. He'd be dead by now if you hadn't."

"You can save him, Shalashaska."

It was not a question. Ocelot turned his gaze to Vulich, who had not tried to rise from his spot by the wall. He was watching, though, and he seemed to understand.

"Yes," Ocelot said. "I can save him."

Vulich bared his teeth. It looked like a grimace of pain, but Ocelot knew better. He knew Vulich was laughing.

"Take Innokenty and go outside," Ocelot said.

Kolya shivered. "But sir…"

"I need to be alone with your Lieutenant."

"I don't think I can leave him."

Vulich pressed his hand against the wall at his back, and straightened himself. The spot right beneath his breastbone, Ocelot thought. Right where his ribs bowed together, that was where it caught him.

"Nikolai," Vulich snapped. "Take that boy out of here at once. This is a hell of a thing for a child to have to see."

Kolya's expression crumbled. Soon, now, he would begin to sob, and he would not stop for some time. "But Lieutenant—"

"I'm ordering you," Vulich said. "Nikolai… Kolya. You've done all you can for me. And now that boy needs your help. Don't tell me everything I taught you was a waste."

Kolya lowered his head. He made a few soft, half-formed words before giving up. He turned, silent, and took Innokenty's hand. The boy went with him without complaint; out, once more, into the light.

Ocelot waited until they were gone, and then he crouched down, level with Vulich, so he could see his face more clearly.

Vulich looked back at him steadily.

In his eyes there were ghosts. Innumerable ghosts; too many to belong to just one man. They were converging on him.

Vulich surprised him by being the first to speak.

"There's a part of me that almost believes you set this all up," he said. "You, Shalashaska. So meticulous and so thorough. Arranging everything just so I'd die just like this."

"I could have," Ocelot agreed. "If I'd wanted to."

"I don't mind dying," Vulich said. "But I didn't want it to be like this. I always thought it would be better. I haven't done anything with my life. I haven't changed anything…"

"There is no better way to die," Ocelot said. "Right now, just as you are. Having never lived long enough for the governments of the world to call you a terrorist and a warlord. Never to rot, forgotten, in a secret prison where your trial never comes. Never to have your throat cut in your own home, in your own bed, by Black Ops; nor to have your own men turn on you, in the end, like they always do."

"As long as those things are happening to any man, they are happening to me," Vulich said. And, somehow, Ocelot could not laugh. It had been a long day, and he was tired, and it seemed very, very hard.

"Then you won't have to suffer all those pains for much longer," Ocelot replied.

He drew his revolvers, both of them, and as he flicked them open and his hands went through the familiar dance of unloading, he said, "I killed Sergei Gurlukovich, but I did not kill his daughter. I only stood by and allowed it to happen."

"You…" For a moment, Vulich's eyes blazed with that old fury. He lurched forward, and then cried out, clutching his side. With a moan, he sank back.

"I saved her son," Ocelot went on, as though he hadn't noticed. "And I killed my own. I'd never spilled family blood before. But then again, before today I didn't know I had any family at all."

Slowly, deliberately, so he was certain Vulich would see it even if his vision was already fading and running to red, Ocelot loaded a single bullet into each gun. He spun the chambers, and he offered one to Vulich.

"The truth is in the blood, Alexei. I don't know if I deserve retribution. Let's find out."

Vulich's hand trembled when he tried to lift it. He took the other away from the hole in his side, and used it to steady his wrist. Ocelot helped him to bend his knee back, and rest the hilt against it so he didn't have to bear its full weight. He cupped the barrel between his hands and helped Vulich take aim.

Right between the eyes.

"You remind me so much of someone I used to know," Ocelot said. "You're young and stupid, like he was. And I'm glad. I 'm so very, very glad that you aren't going to have a chance to become like him."

"You traitor," Vulich hissed. His teeth were stained red with blood. Flecks of it flew from between his lips when he spoke.

He pulled the trigger, and the gun clicked dryly. His expression went slack, and for an instant Ocelot was almost certain Vulich would begin to cry.

"Shh," Ocelot said, and he pressed a crooked finger to Vulich's lips. And he pressed, tenderly, the barrel of the gun to his temple.

Again, nothing but the echo of an empty chamber.

"Liar!" Vulich snarled, and the word seemed to give him the strength to squeeze the trigger again. And again there was no bullet.

Vulich's hand was trembling now. He clamped the other over his wrist like a shackle, and held it down. He was without pity.

"Spy!" He was nearly shouting now. "Murderer! Murderer!"

His finger jerked the trigger with each word, and each time the gun did not fire.

Calmly, Ocelot closed his hand around the cylinder, and held it fast so it could not turn. Vulich raised his face. All the color had gone out of his cheeks, and his eyes were empty. Not like eyes at all, but like two holes punched through to the darkness beyond.

Ocelot lifted his gun. His hand felt as brittle as paper curled around it. He thought of the way it would kick in his hand when it went off. He'd always thought of it as the affectionate bite of a lover, but this time, he knew, it would be vicious.

There was only one good shot left in him. But at this range, it was impossible to miss.

And Ocelot was relieved, yes. He was even happy. They would die together this time. Plunged into fire, the way it had always been meant to be.

Vulich had used the last of his strength to lift Ocelot's gun that final time. He was panting for breath now; his chest rising and falling, as fragile as a songbird's. But his eyes were still the eyes of a hawk.

"Hell," he whispered. "Your Hell, will be reliving the moment you became the man you are. Forever. Forever, forever, forever…"

The gunshot that rang out was very loud in the close confines of the bunker.


	45. Epilogue

It had been three months. Most days it felt like longer.

Jack no longer dreamed about his father, about Ocelot, about Olga Gurlukovich. He didn't dream about anything that he could remember when he woke up, and that was how he wanted it. He slept now for nine, ten, even twelve hours at a stretch, as if he had years of lost rest to catch up on.

He saw Adrian one evening a week. They alternated apartments. If they met at his place, then Adrian would usually cook. He was intuitive about food; he trusted his senses. He never followed a recipe, but everything always worked out for him. On the nights that he came to Jack's apartment, they made do with takeout. Afterwards, they'd sit on the sofa side-by-side, barely touching, watching whatever happened to be on cable, killing time until they could go back to the bedroom.

It felt like an archaic ritual that they performed with exactness, that they had long forgotten the meaning of. It felt good like that.

Friday night rolled around. Jack caught the subway near his apartment a little after seven. It was spring; the days were longer now. A little light still glimmered in the sky, but down here between the buildings, the streetlamps were coming on. He checked the time frequently. He tried to be punctual, though on his off nights Adrian was late more often and by longer then Jack ever was. He usually called, but sometimes he didn't, and even now it set Jack to wondering.

He took it as an inevitability: they would not be together like this forever.

Sometimes Jack remembered their last night together in Moscow, and he did not know why he had said the things he had. They had spent a week there, soaking out their aches and pains, salving their bruises, gathering their strength to go home.

The Gurlukovich soldier – Kolya – and Innokenty had been with them at first. Neither of them spoke a word of English, but Adrian had taken them aside and, with nothing but a phrasebook from the hotel gift shop and some elementary grammar, half-remembered, he had talked the whole story out of them.

Perhaps it had been his patience then, Jack thought, that had made him do what he did.

Kolya didn't know where Ocelot had gone. He said that he had disappeared from Groznyj Grad; he'd strayed from the path and the woods had swallowed him whole, a fairy character returning to his tale. He'd left Kolya with a letter written in an elaborate code, and the name of a doctor in Moscow. Ocelot had said that they could trust her. Jack hadn't believed that for a second, but he'd kept his mouth shut on the matter. Kolya and Innokenty clearly needed to see someone.

There had been some kind of a reactor leak at Groznyj Grad, Kolya told them. He made it sound like an accident, but Jack wasn't so sure. Whatever the case, by their first night away they were showing symptoms. They were pale and prone to fainting; Adrian was constantly pulling the Jeep over to the side of the rode so one or the other could bolt out of the back seat to puke in the ditch.

The next day, Innokenty had been a little better, but Kolya was still gripped by cold sweats. They had both lost flesh from their faces. While Adrian questioned them, Kolya chewed his lip and shivered.

Later that evening, Adrian had filled him in on everything. Jack couldn't remember what he had said in return, but he didn't think it had been important. There wasn't much of a choice to be made.

They'd herded Kolya and Innokenty into a cab and driven into the city center where the new Western-style buildings were. The doctor's practice was in one of the penthouses. She was tall, dark, much younger than Jack had expected. She scrutinized Ocelot's message with unsmiling intensity.

Jack had sensed he had only a moment before she whisked the boys away, out of his reach. He pulled Innokenty aside and slipped a wad of rubles into his hand. Wrapped around the bills was a scrap of hotel stationary with Philanthropy's secure contact information on it.

He had known that Innokenty would know what to do. He was sure he had been right to trust him.

There had been no word from either of them since then.

Jack got off the subway at Forest Hills. As he came up onto the sidewalk he glanced at the clock at the Bank of America. It was almost eight.

He walked a little faster.

At the liquor store on the corner, he bought a bottle of wine and then went on to Adrian's apartment. He knocked, and then Adrian was there, almost as if he had been waiting.

"Right on time," he purred.

Jack frowned, wondering if Adrian was making fun of him. He presented the bottle of wine.

"What's the occasion?"

"Three months."

"Ah, yes. I didn't forget that."

Adrian was still busy in the kitchen. Jack pulled a chair around so he could watch him work.

He could remember the hotel room in Moscow. Adrian had been stretched out on one of the beds, naked because clothes hurt his bruises. He'd had a sheet pulled up around his hips.

"I'll miss you when all this is over, Ingenue," was what he had said.

"Yes…" Jack had replied, uncertainly.

"You know these things so rarely work out."

"No," he'd said, uncertain still.

Adrian had raised his head a fraction of an inch, enough to look at him. He had not brought the subject up again, but when they were both back in New York they had fallen into this soothing rhythm: food, television, and sex.

These things so rarely worked, but for the moment they did.

"I was at the office a few days ago," Jack said. They never talked during the week; they always saved everything up for Friday night.

"At Philanthropy?"

"Yeah. Hal says he's been keeping an eye out, but there's been no sign of Ocelot anywhere. He just disappeared after Groznyj Grad."

"Are you ever going to introduce me to your friends, Jack?"

Adrian sounded amused. Jack had the impression that he was being teased, and he smiled a timid smile. "You mean Hal and Snake? You know I'm trying to figure out how to break the news to them. They'll just put you to work rescuing orphans from burning buildings and shutting down unlicensed puppy mills. Hero work."

He watched Adrian chop a bell pepper: his fingers flying, the knife flying, everything in the attitude of flight. When he was finished, Jack found his voice again.

"Do you think he's dead?"

Adrian seemed to know who he meant, but he resisted it.

Jack waited.

"He is an old man," Adrian said at last. "And he looked very tired. His mind and his body had grown weary. When a man gets like that, the line between alive and dead is very fine."

"What about killing him?"

"I had my chance," Adrian said quietly. "I know I will not get another."

"Are you… okay with that?"

There was a skillet of olive oil heating on the stove. Adrian added the chopped pepper to an onion he already had prepared, then he dumped them both into the pan. They hissed and leaped in the hot oil, and he pushed them around with a wooden spatula.

The smell quickly filled the kitchen. Jack's stomach growled in anticipation.

"Are you hungry?"

Jack shrugged. "I like your cooking."

Adrian poured water over the vegetables. He turned down the heat and left them to simmer. Then he set the spatula on a rack, and wiped his hands on a dish towel. Methodical and efficient; everything planned a moment in advance.

He turned around.

"I still think about Revolver Ocelot," he admitted. "I think about him a lot. But he is as a specter to me – a ghost – he has no weight and no substance and no form. You are more real to me now than he ever was. Your hunger, and your hands, and your need. These are tangible things that I can measure and grasp."

"Oh," Jack said. He went forward a step, unsure, but Adrian pulled him into his arms, into a kiss.

It felt right. It felt like the truth. Jack moved against him, fitting their bodies together, finding the shape of him beneath his clothes, beneath his disguises, beneath his skin. He thought of a shade called back from the land of the dead, his senses restored by a glut of blood. Stealing what time he could here, amongst the living.

~ The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all around, but especially to EAG, Aunt Arctica, Grayswandir, Sunny Mario, Dahne, Sharkychan, Drake, and everyone who has left reviews over the years. Your assistance, kind words, encouragement, and wave upon inexhaustible wave of horrible Munchans (applies to EAG only) meant a lot to me and haven't been forgotten.


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